


The Shades of Grey

by terma_archivist



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, First Time, M/M, Multi, Past Cassandra/Kronos/Methos (Highlander)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2002-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 61,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Post CAH/Rev, first time Duncan/Methos, flashback Methos/Kronos/Cassandra, pretty twisted, dark stuff, but not utterly hopeless.
Relationships: Cassandra (Highlander)/Kronos (Highlander)/Methos (Highlander), Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Collections: TER/MA





	1. Shades of Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> Disclaimer: THIS IS NC-17 FOR GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT, RAPE AND VIOLENCE: IF YOU DON'T LIKE THE DARKSIDE, GO NOW! Additional disclaimer: This story contains scenes which depict violence against women. As a rabid, left-wing, bra-burning feminist, I want to make it perfectly clear that I do not at all condone real violence against real women in any form, ever, at all, period. There is a line between fantasy and reality, folks, and therefore I find it hot stuff to read about certain things that I would slaughter strangers for doing in real life.

  
**Shades of Grey  
by Mairead Triste**

  
Duncan MacLeod hunched his shoulders more firmly into the enveloping warmth of his trenchcoat as he shuffled through the mist. Tonight the fog had come in thick, fuzzing the outlines of everything which normally stood out so clearly, and Duncan experienced a moment of bitter amusement. His head might as well have been filled with mist, for all he could make sense of the outlines of his thoughts. 

The need to be moving drove him, avenue following avenue as he stared unseeing at the pavement beneath his feet. He walked automatically through the increasingly dim streets of Paris, moving generally back toward the heart of the city. The movement soothed him as he tried to sort through the confused mess of his feelings, his thoughts. 

When he had parted with Methos in the churchyard an hour ago, he hadn't felt confused at all. It was only now, away from the other man's presence, that he struggled to comprehend why he'd done the things he'd done. He fought down an urge to seek Methos out, impatient with his own weakness. If he wanted answers that was the last place he should go; Methos would either evade his questions entirely or give him unsatisfying, cryptic asides designed to make Duncan feel like an untutored child. Right now he already felt petulant and almost juvenile, walking moodily through the semidarkness, trying to understand the world around him. 

He felt a brief surge of impotent anger; as far as he knew he had been played like a trump card in a game with only one possible winner. The anger felt good, clear at least. It was something to hold on to where everything else was so insubstantial, but he doubted that getting pissed off was going to help anything. 

The fog pressed closer, enveloping him. After the past few weeks of hell, it was a relief to feel himself locked away, distant from the cares and needs of others, only himself to answer to. In this state, just himself was more than enough. 

The questions in his mind circled endlessly, intruding on him without respite. Why had he behaved the way that he had? It wasn't like him to be so confused about his own actions, but since Ingrid it seemed that nothing was black and white anymore; there were only maddeningly uncertain shades of grey. He had become accustomed to confusion; it was the descent into chaos that was bothering him. 

Ingrid. He had killed Ingrid, although it had caused him terrible pain to do so. Methos' words about judgment came to mind, and he struggled to push them away. The idea that life and death hung from such a subjective thread was deeply frightening, not to mention depressing; but Duncan had to admit that the idea had the ring of truth. 

He'd had no logical reason to insist that Methos be spared, and yet he had insisted. Even if he accepted Methos' evaluation of him as judge, jury and executioner, then from his own code of ethics Cassandra had been justified, and Methos should have died. 

He remembered watching Cassandra threatening Methos' collapsed body, sure in that moment that if she went through with it he would take her head. But why? The question haunted him, returning again and again. 

The core of his struggle seemed to be locked in paradox: he wanted to reject Methos' assessment of him as an arbitrary judge who determined life or death; but he would have killed Cassandra if she hadn't let him make that decision. He wanted Methos to live; it was the intensity and insistence of that desire which puzzled him. 

The streetlamps were ghostly halos, glowing brightly in the enshrouding mist. Duncan felt clammy with moisture and chilled to the bone; he supposed he should get himself home soon, perhaps open a good bottle of wine to ward off the damp and cold. 

He slowed his steps and looked for a landmark, wondering where he could have gotten himself to. He moved toward the building on his left, and saw with almost a shock of surprise that it was completely familiar to him; he was half a block away from Shakespeare and Company. Methos' safe haven, where he ran when he needed to hide himself away. 

His questions loomed even larger now, spurred by the fact that his feet had managed to take him here without his consent. 

Well, he pondered briefly, nothing says I have to go there. I could go to the cafe on the next street over and call for a taxi. 

Right. 

He paused a moment in indecision, knowing that seeing Methos right now was definitely a bad idea for both of them; but something, perhaps knowing that the other man was so close, made his previous urge to see Methos into an imperative. 

Duncan sighed, resigned, and turned his steps toward the place he knew so well. 

Now he stood quietly in the concealing shadows of the doorway, hands in his pockets as he watched Methos. Sword drawn, Methos faced him warily, obviously unsure who was approaching him. There was something strange about watching Methos without being recognized; the other man looked old, almost haggard. Methos was eerily silent. 

Duncan had intended to walk in, but he was surprised into stillness. He could see pain on Methos' face, pain that looked soul-deep. Fascinated, Duncan wondered for the first time what these past weeks must have been like for Methos, playing both sides against each other with survival on the line; not to mention getting a daily dose of dementia from Kronos. He wondered how seeing Methos being so guarded could make him appear so vulnerable. 

Suddenly Duncan realized that there was a certain voyeuristic edge to this moment, and at once he stepped forward, moving out of the shadows. As he came into the light it occured to him that this was the first time since their confrontation that he'd seen Methos anywhere but on holy ground. 

When Methos recognized him, Duncan was surprised to see a brief but palpable look of relief cross the other man's face, immediately followed by an equally transparent look of annoyance. 

"MacLeod." Methos acknowledged tersely, waiting. 

"Methos." 

Duncan watched the other man put the sword down on the table by his hip in an apparently casual movement, the blade still within reach but far enough away to pose no obvious threat. A nicely calculated distance, Duncan thought. 

Methos simply stood and stared at him, leaning back against the table with crossed arms, exasperation plain on his face. Duncan found a certain perverse pleasure in saying nothing, wondering how long Methos would stand there before he spoke. Methos' subtle shift from one hip to the other as he leaned against the table was almost too minor to register, but Duncan knew a fidget when he saw one. 

"What is it, MacLeod?" Methos finally sneered, "Are you here for a detailed description of the other nine hundred and ninety-nine regrets so that you can walk away more easily? Are you expecting me to beat my breast with self-recrimination and do some bloody act of contrition so that you can feel okay about me again?" 

It occurred to Duncan that for some reason his presence was making Methos uncomfortable; probably being caught unawares without his usual guise of complaisance. Still saying nothing, he went to an overstuffed chair behind Methos, obliging the other man to turn around, and sat. 

"Okay, then," Methos said with barely concealed annoyance, "twenty questions it is. Why are you here, MacLeod?" 

Duncan couldn't repress a bit of a grin when Methos asked him the question. "I'm trying to figure that out myself, Methos," he answered. 

"You shouldn't be here. There's nothing we need to say to each other right now." Methos passed his hand over his eyes briefly, then turned and walked away from Duncan into the more open spaces of the room. After a moment or two, Duncan followed. 

This was very weird. Duncan had felt differently toward Methos since he'd learned of his past, a combination of disappointment and bitter anger that made him wonder how much of a pedestal he'd had Methos on in the first place. Now, however, seeing Methos as... well, human for the first time-not Methos the legendary Immortal, or Methos the master manipulator and topmost survivalist-made Duncan feel strange. He wondered how it made Methos feel. 

Suddenly Methos stopped in his tracks, and Duncan stood still, waiting. When Methos turned to him, Duncan could see the effort the other man was making to remain calm. 

"Get out," Methos said quietly, "you should have left it alone. You should have left _me_ alone. We've already said our goodbyes." 

Duncan decided to push it. He stood his ground, ignoring Methos' overt dismissal. After a brief time of staring at him and scowling, Methos threw up his hands in an extravagant gesture of exasperation. Duncan forced himself not to grin. 

"Okay, MacLeod," Methos said abruptly, "what do you want?" His impatience= was palpable. "Why are you here? I obviously can't get you to leave, so you might as well enlighten me about why you're so determined to stay." 

Abruptly Duncan was less comfortable. "I don't want anything from you, Methos," he said, "and I told you before, I don't know why I'm here. I had questions... I realized I had a lot of questions," he finished lamely. Methos was looking at him curiously, and Duncan took refuge in sarcasm; "I knew you wouldn't give me any answers, but I came here anyway. If I figure out why, I'll be sure to let you know." 

Now Methos was studying him, and Duncan felt very conscious of the dampness that still clung to his hair and clothes, wishing he'd taken a moment to dry himself off a bit before coming down the stairs. Methos smiled, his customary self-assured demeanor back in place for the moment. 

"Gee, Mac," he inquired dryly, "while you were asking yourself all these questions why didn't you ask yourself why you were staggering around in the rain?" 

Duncan had a truly horrible moment, a moment when he began to respond to Methos' banter in the old comfortable way before he realized with a shock that those days were over. In that instant he realized the depth of the loss he felt, how much he wished he could return to a time of trust. 

He opened his mouth, not quite sure what he was going to say. "She kept telling me you had to die." Well, that was unexpected. He felt a need to explain, and a greater need to be understood; "I was with Cassandra for weeks, Methos, and in almost every moment she was demanding, insisting that you had to die." 

Methos stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Is that what you're here for, MacLeod? Wouldn't it have been easier for you to let her kill me and spare yourself the guilt?" 

"No! I mean yes!" Duncan was frustrated. "I'm not here to kill you, Methos; I'm here to try to figure out why I need you to live!" 

Duncan saw the light go on above Methos' head, and he had a brief instant of relief at being understood. Methos looked at him speculatively. "I'm having a hard time believing that you could be quite this oblivious, MacLeod." 

Duncan was frustrated all over again. "It doesn't make sense, Methos. I judged Ingrid, even though I loved her. What you did was worse than anything Ingrid ever dreamed, not to mention the fact that you were pulling my strings the whole time; and I did nothing except insist that you had to live. I don't understand it." He chuckled briefly. "If you were a woman, I'd think I had fallen for you." 

Methos was regarding him amusedly, arms crossed, head tilted to one side. "Yes, MacLeod. Well, that's not the case though, is it?" Eyebrows raised=2E "I'm not a woman." 

Duncan stared back at him. "And I haven't. And I can't make sense of so many things, Methos; most of all, why I'm here when I know you'll never answer my questions in the first place." 

"You and I both know you don't like the answers I have to give, MacLeod, and if you can't handle the answer it is wiser just to not ask the question." 

God, Methos could be so annoying. "So I suppose you know why I'm here?" 

Methos was smug. "I do now." 

Duncan stared at Methos with narrowed eyes. "Okay then," he said incredulously, "why don't you enlighten me?" 

Methos shook his head. "You wouldn't like it." 

Duncan was aggravated now. "Dammit, Methos," he snapped, "will you stop playing these stupid games?" 

Duncan saw his anger mirrored on the other man's face. "This is no game, MacLeod," he said harshly. "I'm telling you; you don't want to know what I have to say." 

Exasperated, Duncan fought off an urge to reach out and shake the other man. "I have to try to understand, Methos," he said as patiently as he could, "I- I'm not myself lately, and I feel like I have to know." Suddenly he looked at Methos warily. "Does this have something to do with the dark Quickening?" 

Methos' eyes rolled. "Oh please, MacLeod, don't be an idiot." = 

Duncan hated it when he could feel himself blush. "Well, what then?" he demanded. 

Methos smiled a little. "Oh MacLeod," he began, shaking his head, "it's all so very simple, after all. Things have always been so very easy for you. You want to know why you're here? You're getting older, that's all. You're outgrowing your simplistic worldview. You, with your reverence for all life and your faith that the fight was just. Every single event, person, and circumstance in your life has been viewed and judged according to the blacks and whites of the sacrosanct MacLeod code of good and evil. Well," he continued, "I put an end to all that, didn't I? When you look at me you see the shades of grey. Your easy moral choice is gone." 

Duncan was perplexed. This was definitely not what he'd expected. For a moment he wondered if Methos was right, but then his grave disappointment in the other man recurred to him and he frowned. "I'm not going for this, Methos. Good and evil aren't that hard to understand, and you were the one who made me believe that you were a decent man, that you valued human life." 

Suddenly, Methos was in his face, obviously frustrated. "MacLeod, will you please get your ticket punched on the Reality Express? I have never claimed to be other than what I am-a survivor. You have never known the full depth of what I am, but not because I thought you _wouldn't_ understand. I knew you _couldn't_ understand." He backed away a little, and Duncan relaxed. 

"You and I are products of two very different eras, MacLeod," he continued more quietly. "The concepts of good and evil just don't mean the same thing to me that they do to you. I came to life in a time when the cycle of existence was understood and balanced. People respected and worshipped the power of creation, the ability to heal and nurture, yes; but they also honored the destructive and chaotic forces, the power of death, the darkness." Looking into Methos' dilated, serious eyes, Duncan had to suppress a shiver as he realized again how ancient the other man was. Suddenly Methos seemed alien, nearly repulsive, but Duncan couldn't stop staring at him, listening intently to every word. 

"Everything goes round, MacLeod; everything cycles in life and death except for a few freaks like us. Your determination of good and evil is pitiably simplistic. You will never be able to understand that light and darkness exist _outside_ the judgment of good and bad; you will only know the futility of your struggle, penalizing those around you who see more than you do." 

Duncan felt the impact of the words, but forced himself to wave them away brusquely. "Thanks for the psychoanalysis, Doctor," he quipped. 

"Maybe you should try it sometime, MacLeod," Methos said, smiling dryly, "mi sofa es su sofa." 

Duncan's nerves were on edge, and he bit back an acid rebuttal. "Okay then," he said grudgingly, "if I'm here because of some weird kind of Immortal growing pains, why do I need you to live? Have I somehow decided that I need you to be my nursemaid through my awkward adolescence?" 

Methos smiled again, although Duncan could see him struggling with it. "Oh no, MacLeod," he said wryly, "not your nursemaid." 

Duncan was frustrated again. "What the hell, Methos?" he demanded, "will you please get over yourself and stop speaking as if you were the Oracle at Delphi? Just tell me!" 

Duncan didn't much care for the way Methos was staring at him. There was a moment of unease as the other man looked him up and down, deepening when Methos licked his lower lip. 

"Okay, MacLeod. Have it your way." Methos' voice was silky, sinuous. "You don't want me dead because you want to fuck me, first." 

Duncan went cold. 

"I what?" he stammered. He seemed to have gone numb everywhere. Almost everywhere. 

"You heard me." 

"Oh, I heard you, Methos, I just don't believe you said what you said." 

"Don't you?" Smug again. 

Duncan turned and walked away then, not knowing how to deal with the sudden, overwhelming feeling of being threatened without drawing his sword. He'd only taken three steps when a strong hand gripped his arm and he was whirled around to find Methos almost close enough to press up against him=2E 

The feeling of danger crested, and Duncan's hand went automatically to the hilt of his katana. When he realized what he was doing, he froze. 

Methos stood his ground. "Go ahead," Methos said calmly, "I won't fight you." 

Duncan's nerveless fingers were clenched fiercely on his sword as he remained still, pinned down by an unnameable threat. Methos stepped even closer. 

"Tell me, MacLeod," he said softly, "is it easier to take the head of a friend than it is to brave this?" Methos leaned toward him, placing gentle hands on either side of his head. Before Duncan could protest his mouth had been captured in a warm, pressing kiss, a tender and sensual caress that he felt through his entire body. The immediacy of his response terrified him, and abruptly he shoved Methos away. 

Methos let him go, and Duncan began to back away, wanting desperately to get out of the room and wishing he'd never come. To his dismay Methos was following him, advancing step by step as he retreated. Duncan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, taking refuge in the anger that surfaced. 

"Stay away from me, Methos!" 

"But I know how you feel, MacLeod." Duncan had never noticed how sensual Methos' voice was. 

"You're wrong this time, Methos. Very wrong." 

"I've known for a long time." Duncan felt as if he were being expertly wheedled. "Trust me, I know. I know what you need." 

Anger was ebbing away, slowly being replaced by panic. "I wouldn't trust you if you said my fly was open, so what makes you think I'd trust you enough to... to..." 

Duncan stopped retreating, fiercely fighting his own sense of panic in an effort to be perfectly rational when he explained to Methos why he was mistaken. 

Methos stood about three feet from him, staring at him with a hungry, knowing look that made him want to squirm. 

"Now listen, Methos—" 

"Give me your hand." Methos' voice was both soft and insistent. 

Duncan was bewildered "What? I—" 

"Your hand, MacLeod." 

Confused, Duncan released his sword hilt and put out his hand, which was taken gently in a grip that was surprisingly warm. Duncan's panic rose up, but when he looked at Methos he was caught, held immobile in the depths of the other man's eyes. He didn't resist as Methos pulled his hand up, gently opening his fingers. 

Duncan gasped as Methos pressed a kiss into the center of his palm, feeling an erotic shock jolt through him. He stared into Methos' captivating, sensual eyes and felt himself hardening. 

Duncan couldn't pull his hand away, not even when Methos covered it with his own and placed both their hands gently over Duncan's erection. 

"Now, MacLeod," Methos said rationally, "what were you about to say?" 

Duncan said nothing. He realized that his mouth was hanging open in shock, which Methos must have taken for an invitation. 

Duncan saw Methos leaning toward him, feeling a soft touch on the back of his head as Methos used his free hand to support him. Inside he was yelling at himself to get away, to not let this happen, but he couldn't break through the strange paralysis as Methos came toward his mouth. 

Just before Methos closed on him, Duncan shuddered and pulled himself back. He stepped away, wishing he wasn't trembling so noticeably. 

"This isn't a good idea, Methos." 

Methos flanked him, getting between him and the doorway. 

"Why not?" he asked seductively, "are you telling me it's not what you want?" 

Duncan was frustrated, angry that Methos was blocking his escape. "No," he said curtly, "I'm telling you that it's a bad idea. I'm telling you that I'm leaving, and you're in my way." 

Methos grasped his shoulders, holding him firmly. "Why is this a bad idea, MacLeod? Why run away?" 

Duncan couldn't maintain his anger. His body was still shaking with desire, desire he didn't understand. "I'm afraid," he said simply. 

Methos seemed confused. "Yes? And?" 

Duncan was irritated. "Don't pretend you don't understand me, Methos. I told you-I'm afraid." 

Methos eyed him dubiously. "Are you telling me that in four hundred years you've never once tried it with another man?" 

He was blushing again, self-conscious and feeling absurdly childlike. "No," he admitted quietly. "But I... I didn't like it." 

To his amazement Methos smiled, his eyes captivating. "That's okay, MacLeod," the other man murmured, starting towards him, "you'll like this." 

Duncan was too stunned to move. Methos grasped his head once more, and then Duncan's blood was surging, pounding in his own ears as Methos kissed him, a hard, hot, wet kiss that made his knees weak. 

He had to force himself not to respond, his body confused under the equal pressures of desire and fear. He wanted to grab Methos and grind into him as hard as he could, he wanted to sink his teeth into the other man's flesh, he wanted to run screaming. He was familiar with arousal, but this was more like a craving that was going to kill him if it went unsatisfied=2E Why now, he wondered, and why Methos? 

Suddenly he experienced a sharp pang of fear as it occurred to him that he could be playing right into Methos' hands in the first step of some new dance of manipulation. The fear didn't eradicate the desire, but it did give him the strength to push Methos away, looking into the other man's eyes with demanding intent. 

"I have to know one thing, Methos," he said, struggling to control his voice, "have you been using me all this time? Are you using me now?" 

"It doesn't matter, MacLeod," Methos said calmly. 

Duncan felt completely adrift; his body was on fire with need but his brain kept insisting that he had to know. "What do you mean, it doesn't matter?" he asked incredulously, "This is my _life_ , okay? You can't ask me to trust you and tell me that it doesn't matter whether or not I should!" 

Momentarily he wondered if Methos was simply too ancient, too alien to understand. "Don't you know that trust matters, Methos? Don't you know that honesty matters? What in God's name is wrong with you, anyway?" 

Methos didn't take the bait, he just advanced on Duncan again, speaking softly. "I'm telling you, MacLeod, it doesn't matter. Maybe I arranged things so that you would fight Kronos and I wouldn't, or maybe it just bloody happened that way. Either way, it's over, and you and I are alive, and the rest just doesn't matter." 

Methos was very close to him now, and Duncan started edging back. Looking into Methos' eyes was turning him on, making him want... everything. 

"Maybe," Methos continued softly, "I'm being honest with you right now; or maybe I'm just setting you up for a fall. Either way, this is not about the future, this is about here and now, and it doesn't matter." Abruptly Duncan felt the backs of his knees hit the side of Methos' bed. With a casual but terrifyingly deliberate gesture, Methos leaned toward him until Duncan had to either sit down or fall over. He sat down. 

Methos knelt before him with unconscious grace, and Duncan felt arousal whip through his body. Then there was a warm, strong hand just resting on his thigh, and he gasped. 

"Maybe," the silky voice continued, "I could seduce you because I know that it would destroy any defenses you have against me; or maybe I do this only because I want you so badly, because I have spent long enough burning with a constant desire to touch you. It doesn't matter." 

Abruptly Duncan felt a solid grip on his hair as Methos stared deeply into his eyes, now only centimeters away. " _This_ is what matters," Methos whispered. "What matters is that you and I are bound together. There is unfinished business between us, MacLeod. I have always known that." 

Duncan's heart was thundering in his chest, and he wondered for a moment if Methos could hear it. He needed to close his eyes, to get some semblance of control, but he couldn't look away. 

Duncan felt Methos release his hair and start to pull away. As Methos sank back onto his knees, each of his hands ran slowly down Duncan's thighs, making him jump. 

"Unfinished business, MacLeod," Methos said softly, "can't you feel that?" 

Duncan couldn't take it; his tenuous grip on the last shreds of restraint had finally snapped. Helpless to stop himself he reached out and grabbed the other man roughly by the front of his sweater, dragging him onto the bed and pinning him down. "I hope you really want this, Methos," he growled, "because you're going to get it." 

Now that Duncan had let himself go, he found that he knew exactly what he wanted. He held Methos' head still and kissed him, plundering his mouth without consideration, enjoying the feeling of having Methos gasp and shiver underneath him. 

Now Methos' hands were stroking everywhere, trying to feel all of him at once. Duncan's senses were being flooded; the crushing silky kisses with the scratchiness of stubble, an intoxicating smell of rising male arousal, and most of all the palpable waves of need which radiated from Methos each increased the ache of desire. 

Beneath him Methos was making incredibly sexy muffled sounds of assent and tugging roughly at his shirt. 

Duncan backed away a little without breaking the kiss, and managed to take his own shirt off. Methos moaned in mid-kiss, and Duncan shivered as strong hands caressed his shoulders, his back, tickling delightfully over his sides. 

Desperate for the touch of bare skin, Duncan reached out, momentarily puzzled when he encountered a sweater. Knowing that it was too late to care, Duncan grabbed it by the collar, feeling Methos heave under him as he tore it asunder. 

Duncan's arousal was increasing as his hands roamed over silky flesh, stroking Methos' chest, cupping his face. Duncan needed more and he wiggled his hands under Methos, holding him firmly and grinding against him in tight, circular motions. Methos arched against him, open, accepting, letting Duncan ravish him. Duncan dimly heard his own muffled voice speaking, passionate endearments and curses and instructions, rendered unintelligible by their united mouths. 

At last Duncan ended the kiss and buried his head in the hollow of Methos' shoulder, panting and gasping for air. When Methos shivered and arched his neck to Duncan's mouth, his cock leaped in response. 

"MacLeod, please..." Methos groaned, clutching at him, "I'm going to explode if I don't get you inside me—" 

Duncan's body stiffened with desire, and for a moment he thought he might come in his pants. Then he thought of how much more he wanted, and somehow he was able to leave Methos lying abandoned on the bed while he stood up and began wrestling with the rest of his clothes. Fortunately, Methos took the hint and quickly removed the rest of his own. Duncan saw that Methos didn't wear underwear, so before he could struggle out of his briefs the other man was just lying there, watching him hungrily. 

Methos was beautiful naked, his body lean and graceful, his pale skin delicately flushed with a rosy glow of desire, his erection proud, curving, and much bigger than Duncan expected. 

Duncan was surprised. Staring at another man's erection was not normally what he would expect to get off on, but there it was, and he wanted it. He walked towards the bed, one hand negligently soothing his rampant cock. 

Before he could do anything Methos had tumbled out of the bed and was kneeling at his feet, pulling his hands away, taking control. When Methos stroked the length of his cock and then squeezed firmly around the base Duncan gasped, involuntarily reaching out and clamping onto Methos' shoulders. He watched Methos lean forward and delicately lick the drop of moisture which had gathered at the tip. A shock went through him at the brief flare of warmth, and he groaned helplessly. 

Still with one hand firmly wrapped around the base, Methos rubbed against his throbbing shaft, nuzzling it against his cheeks, his lips, his throat. Duncan realized that Methos was as driven by arousal as he was himself, and suddenly his body was demanding, crying out for more. Duncan dug his hands viciously into the other man's shoulders. 

"Dammit, Methos, stop all the fucking around and suck me!" he growled menacingly. Methos just smiled at him, a teasing, voluptuous smile that offered everything and promised nothing. 

"Oh, MacLeod," Methos said, his voice husky, "the fucking around hasn't even started yet." 

Despite his words Methos acquiesced, welcoming Duncan's shaft into his throat in one long endless swallow. Every nerve in Duncan's body kindled when he felt that hot, wet mouth close around him, and he couldn't stop himself from straining forward, gasping with pleasure. 

With deliberate slowness Methos moved up and down on his cock, expertly using his tongue, lips and teeth so that every moment brought some new tantalizing variation. Duncan groped frantically for the back of Methos' head, his hands trying unsuccessfully to tangle in the other man's hair. 

Duncan couldn't control his rising excitement or his increasing frustration with the unhurried pace of the caresses, but Methos refused to be rushed. Each stroke was devastatingly thorough and exquisitely slow, burning through him until he was moaning at each touch, his torment perpetually increasing. 

Finally in desperation Duncan grabbed Methos' head firmly and speeded up the pace, sobbing with desire as he tried desperately to push himself into the back of Methos' throat. Duncan shook with relief when Methos allowed this, taking his engorged cock without restraint, moving him closer to orgasm with each thrust. Duncan's muscles fluttered as he hovered on the brink, knowing that one more stroke, one more penetration into that hot and wickedly talented mouth would release him. 

Suddenly Methos was clamping down with the hand that still held the base of his cock, pulling his mouth away at the same time. 

Duncan was numb, shocked, only dimly hearing his own staggered gasps. He felt a wave of guilt as he realized that he'd probably hurt Methos, fucking into his mouth as if it were his to use. He didn't even protest when Methos pulled away, he only stood and looked at him wide-eyed, chest heaving, feeling droplets of sweat run down his body. "I'm sorry," he panted, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just—" 

"I really think it would be better if I were in charge of this, don't you?" Methos teased, relaxing his grip and giving Duncan's cock a gentle, sinuous stroke. Duncan hissed at the nearly painful sensation on his oversensitized erection, and his eyes squeezed shut. 

"Methos...." he breathed, reaching out with one trembling hand, "My God, please... Just touch me!" 

"As you wish." Methos shoved him down onto the bed and lay on top of him. Duncan arched helplessly up against the other man's erection when he felt the sinuous length of Methos' body pressed against his own. 

With a gentle undulation Methos moved against him, claiming his lips in a kiss. Before Duncan had had anywhere near enough, Methos pulled away and crawled up to the small bookshelf next to the head of the bed, knocking books aside. When he turned back, there was a small plastic bottle of massage oil in his hand. Duncan felt a leap of fear, and a concomitant rush of need. 

Moving much too slowly to suit Duncan, Methos straddled his thighs and brought their cocks together, holding them firmly against each other with one large hand and pumping in counterpoint as he slowly thrust with his hips. It was incredible. Methos' shaft rubbed against his own, Methos' hand stroked him slowly, endlessly. 

With his free hand Methos flipped the top of the bottle open with a practiced flick. He liberally drizzled oil over both of their cocks, and Duncan nearly lost control as the friction eased, producing a delirious sliding sensation that made him weak. Duncan saw that Methos was panting, shuddering with arousal, his head arching back in ecstasy. 

Now Methos began in earnest, moving fluidly over Duncan's aching body, speeding up until Duncan was on the verge of orgasm and then stopping, holding them pressed tightly together until he came back from the edge, and then speeding up again; over and over until Duncan had tears in his eyes and Methos could have made him beg for it if he had wanted to. 

Just when Duncan felt like he couldn't stand another moment of anguish, Methos released his grip on both of them. Duncan gasped, shivered, and collapsed, closing his eyes as the room spun around him and his body pulsed with unfulfilled need. He could feel Methos shifting above him, and then a mouth pressed against his in a soft and tender kiss. Duncan moaned quietly. 

There was a firm hand on his shaft, a sensation of increasing closeness, and then an excruciating wave of pleasure as his cock was engulfed in intense heat and tightness with one slow, deliberate movement. Duncan cried out and opened his eyes, shocked to find Methos impaled on him. Methos' brows were drawn together and his teeth were clenched as he held himself motionless, and Duncan stared at him in wonder, all urgency forgotten in this one almost frightening moment of connection, awed by an intimacy he'd never imagined. 

"Oh my God, Methos," Duncan breathed, unable to stop himself, "this is _you_." Slowly he raised both hands to Methos' face, tenderly brushing across his brow, his cheeks, loving the erotic shivers that went through Methos when Duncan glided sensually over his lips, over and over again, knowing he would never have the words to say what this meant to him. 

Methos stroked him gently, trailing from his throat to his chest to the place where they were joined. Moving his hands slowly back up, Methos stopped to softly tweak each nipple between his thumb and forefinger, gradually increasing the pressure. Shocks of pleasure overwhelmed Duncan and he panted, arching his head back as he resisted the urge to move. The almost painful tightness which had first surrounded him was easing now, he could feel rippling, hot flutters of muscle, even with Methos completely still. 

That was too much and he sobbed, curling himself forward almost to a sitting position as he grabbed Methos by the hips. Methos cried out sharply, and immediately Duncan tried to be still, cursing himself for his impatience, his entire body twisting with the effort. 

He looked apprehensively into Methos' eyes, ready to do anything to make it up to him, but the gaze that met his own was unfocused, hazy with desire and sexual need. 

"No, Highlander," Methos gasped, "I want to feel you. Fuck me- _Now_!" 

Duncan groaned and lost control of himself; he held Methos' hips without mercy as he thrust desperately into him. The tightness and the warmth were overwhelming, and Duncan couldn't stop himself from taking, taking everything that had been offered to him. With a surge of lust Duncan realized that the man above him was as desperate as he was; Methos was shuddering helplessly in ecstasy as Duncan fucked him with increasing abandon. 

"Oh yes," Methos moaned, "Just like that. Don't stop, MacLeod, oh please.=2E. yes... don't stop!" 

It was almost too much. Duncan was trying desperately to hold back, needing this incredible experience to go on as long as he could possibly make it. Just looking at Methos right now was about to make him come. That pale skin was flushed with sensual heat and his face was suffused with passion, passion that Duncan had made him feel. The spare and elegant contours of his body were all right there, naked and waiting to be touched, stroked, kissed... and Duncan was terrified by how very much he wanted to oblige. He closed his eyes. 

Even with his eyes closed, he was still being overwhelmed. Duncan panted, trying not to feel quite so much of this exquisite sensation of being inside Methos, of thrusting deliriously into this tight and welcoming body. He gritted his teeth with effort and decided that if he couldn't take much more he should try to make sure that Methos couldn't either, releasing the other man's hips and reaching for his cock, still slippery with oil and throbbing with arousal. 

Methos cried out with a wordless exclamation of pleasure and Duncan opened his eyes. Above him Methos rocked himself back and forth between his fist and cock, moving even more frantically under the double stimulation. As Duncan watched he froze, head thrown wildly back, chest heaving. 

" _Yes_!" Methos wailed, "Duncan! Fuck me! Harder-YES!" 

Duncan let go then, thrusting into Methos' rigid body as hard as he possibly could. A few brutal strokes later, he was coming in incredibly powerful waves, pulling Methos onto his throbbing cock without regard for what damage he might be doing. He felt a warm splash of semen against his chest, and with a gutteral cry he curled himself up and against Methos, grinding out the last shreds of his ecstatic passion while he was circled in the other man's strong arms. 

Some unknown time later Duncan found himself easing back down onto the bed, taking Methos with him. He was still panting, his entire body shaking with release. He felt overwhelmingly aware of what had just happened, and dangerously exposed as if he had somehow stumbled into a trap that had just sprung shut behind him. 

As his erection waned he felt the moment that their bodies separated, and an inexplicable wave of sadness washed over him. He couldn't think of a time that he had felt more vulnerable, or more like he had suffered some great loss. Repressing the grief, he sighed deeply, not knowing quite what to do next. 

The feelings of confusion, shame and discomfort increased. He'd done it; he'd had sex with a man, with Methos, and it had been incredible. He had expected to be slightly revolted and emotionally uninvolved, as he had been in past experiences. Instead, Duncan was craving Methos as much as he had before they'd begun. 

Not wanting to think about what any of this meant, Duncan tried gently to extricate himself from Methos' embrace, but the other man refused to let him go. Arms still firmly around him, Methos kissed him tenderly and lovingly on the mouth. This gesture of affection completely undid Duncan's resolve, and suddenly he was crying quietly, hating his own weakness and shaking in Methos' arms. 

Methos rolled them both onto their sides, still holding Duncan firmly to him. 

"Shh... MacLeod," he murmured softly, placing a gentle kiss on the other man's forehead, "easy now-just relax and trust me, everything will be okay." 

Incredibly, Duncan felt himself responding to the soothing words, and his tears stopped. For some reason which he couldn't even begin to comprehend, all he wanted to do was let Methos comfort him, and never mind all his unanswered questions, his fears, his recriminations. Methos released him momentarily to pull a quilt from the bottom of the bed over them both, immediately wrapping him once again in the circle of his arms. Wondering if he had possibly been hypnotized somehow, Duncan felt himself begin to drift, amazed that it could be this easy. 

He snuggled up to the silky angularity of lean muscle that was Methos, and let his eyes slip closed. Methos was slowly stroking his hair back from his forehead, over and over, hypnotically. Duncan unconsciously began breathing in sync with him, following each breath a little further down into darkness and quiet, loving the warm smell of sex and sweat which emanated from both of them. 

Just before Duncan passed over the line and into sleep, a question occurred to him, nagging vaguely at his mind and not letting go. 

"Methos?" he asked quietly. 

"What is it, MacLeod?" Gently. 

"Am I going to be regret number one thousand and one?" Sadly. 

Methos' arms tightened around him momentarily, and Duncan felt a soft kiss press on each of his closed eyelids. Then his mouth was slowly taken, gently and with such love that he almost started crying again. He felt blessed, redeemed, and gradually he slid back down to darkness under the irrefutable and terrible persuasion of that kiss. 

"You are mine, Highlander." Methos said tenderly, and before Duncan even registered that he had not been answered, he had surrendered to the exquisite comfort around him, and drifted off to sleep. 

* * *

Methos looked quietly at the man asleep in his arms, marvelling at how innocent he looked, how vulnerable. Slowly he eased away, settling onto his back with his hands laced behind his head. 

Methos sighed. Of all the possible outcomes for this day, this was not one he had anticipated. He felt unprepared, as if somehow he should have known that this would happen. ( _Of course_ ), he thought, ( _it worked out all right, at least for tonight. I'll probably wake up with Duncan trying to attack me with either one weapon or the other..._ ) 

He pondered Duncan's last question briefly, and felt a pang of sadness. He supposed the best thing he could do for both of them was just to get up and go, get himself lost in some remote part of the world where there was no beautiful and dangerously na=EFve Duncan MacLeod to resist. 

He just couldn't do it. There were too many things about Duncan that Methos hadn't had enough of yet; Duncan had such fire, and Methos had been cold for a very long time. 

Resigned to what would probably be an ultimately messy and painful situation, Methos turned back to Duncan and gathered him into his arms. Duncan murmured gently and pressed himself happily against Methos, immediately sinking back into deep sleep. 

Duncan looked so beautiful, so trusting in his arms. Methos held him tenderly, trying not to remember, not to acknowlege the smell of innocent blood. 

Of course, he could have told Duncan the truth. That would have been enough to send him screaming into the night. Methos had a moment of intense gratitude that Cassandra was so worried about her image. It had made the lies he'd told Duncan much more plausible. 

He remembered a time when Cassandra had been an innocent, before time and untended wounds had turned her into the avenging bitch she'd become. 

Suddenly he felt old, too old to be playing these kinds of games. What had been amusing in his youth lost its appeal after a few thousand years. ( _Especially_ ), he thought, ( _when it seems that every regret gets a chance to come back and bite you on the arse._ ) 

Cassandra. If he were lucky, he would never have to see her again. Too bad he couldn't do much about the memories. Duncan stirred in his arms, bringing his attention back for a moment. 

If Duncan survived another three thousand years, how might the memory of this day be? Methos didn't plan to give Duncan a reason to come after his head. Of course, no plan is ever really perfect... 

* * *

He could smell her fear as soon as he entered the tent. He let the flap fall closed behind him, relying on his hearing and sense of smell to help him locate her before his eyes adjusted to the dimness. There, off to his left-stealthy breathing and a whiff of panicked sweat from the dark corner near his pallet. 

Quicker than thought, Methos leapt. He managed to knock the clumsy weapon out of her hand: a rude stake used for fastening hides. She fought and screamed like a wildcat, and for a few moments he had his arms full just trying to remain unscathed while he drew his knife. She froze immediately when she felt the familiar point of cold metal at her throat, her rapid breathing the only thing that animated her as she stiffened against him, the muscles in her back trembling against his chest. He pressed the edge of the knife firmly against her skin, not cutting yet but quite close, and shifted her body more firmly against his rapidly hardening cock. She cried out at once, trying ineffectually to squirm away from both his knife and his erection. 

Methos leaned down into the hollow of her arched neck and inhaled deeply, enjoying the shudders of her response and the smell of innocent blood. Fear was coming from her in waves now, nearly as palpable as the tide of her breath or the rush of her heart. He gripped the front of her throat, squeezing a gentle threat with one hand while the other used the knife to trace idle patterns on the soft skin of her chest. She cried out again, and started to struggle. 

"Let's have a little more willingness here, if you please," he growled. "I appreciate your desire to welcome me home, but a cool drink and a sponge bath seems a more appropriate greeting. _Now_ ," he snarled, tightening his grip on her throat while bringing the knife hard against her, "Are you going to stop fighting me, or am I going to have to kill you again? I really don't mind having to kill you," he added in his silkiest voice, grinding his now-rampant erection against the top of her buttocks. "In fact, I rather enjoy the idea, as I'm sure you can tell. So, my dear, the decision is all yours." 

Abruptly all the fight went out of her. She went limp in his arms, her face obscured by her cloud of hair, her hands hanging passive and open. Methos chuckled, and used his free arm to bring his knife down in a wicked arc, burying the blade into the soft wood of his travelling trunk. She flinched, but made no sound. Methos bent a little and cupped one of his hands between her legs. 

He stood, lifting her off the ground and gliding her buttocks over his straining cock in a way that was almost painfully erotic. His indrawn breath hissed with pleasure, echoed by her hiss of trepidation. Her head now lay across his shoulder, and he turned his face once more into her neck, inhaling the almost electric smell of her passion, anger, and fear. 

He knew she was a virgin. Her status as a mystic and healer had told him that, even before his initial rough explorations of her body had confirmed it. She was not ignorant, not after her life among the nomads, but she was completely inexperienced, expected to maintain her maiden status for at least the duration of her apprenticeship. 

She was utterly perfect. She had witnessed the slaughter of her people by his hand, and had fallen victim to his knife herself on several occasions. He had violated her in every conceivable way except sexually, and he knew that the greatest part of her constant fear resulted from wondering exactly when he would go past the point of words and threats to actual rape. She hated him with all the passion in her fervent heart, she wanted him dead, she was in constant terror of him, and she was perfect, perfectly suited to fill his particular needs. 

Methos wanted her to fall in love with him. 

Passionately in love with him. He wanted his slightest inclination to be her urgent imperative. He wanted her to burn with desire for him, to crave him as she craved air and light and food to survive. 

Most of all, he wanted to see if he could pull it off. 

Boredom had taken its toll on him over the ages. He grew and changed and learned and dropped little bits of his humanity as he went along, until now he almost frightened himself, this fearsomely old and alien thing, crouching in the middle of the river of life and swallowing time in greedy walloping chunks. 

He had to do something to fill in the time, to stop himself from going mad just from the sheer weight of all the years that lay behind him and all the possible years that lay before. 

And so, Methos had begun his little Experiments: how far would any given person really go? How much could be manipulated, controlled, exploited; and what would the consequences be? 

As soon as he had realized that she was Immortal, his racing mind had provided him with all the possibilities inherent in the situation. How this could be a delightful test of his powers of manipulation, the perfect way to gauge his skill. 

And now, she was ready for him. He had killed her until she stopped fighting him, sullied and degraded her when he'd had the time, and now she was at the peak of both hatred and fear, with this limp and abject submission the result. Just the thought of it excited him almost to the point of spilling into his breeches with no further stimulation. 

Methos used the hand that wasn't supporting her between the legs to roam over the rest of her body, relishing the wet feel of tears on her face and neck, silent tears which seemed almost to pulse with hot recrimination. Her breasts were small and firm, and her breath caught roughly in her throat when he touched her there, but she did not resist. She was small and lithe and blessedly warm, and he allowed the palms of both of his hands to absorb her warmth for a long moment before he slowly lowered her to the floor. She stumbled as she tried to take a step, and he caught her and steadied her. 

He turned her around to face him, realizing only then that she was on the verge of fainting, whether from an excess of outrage or terror he couldn't tell. He scooped her up into his arms, and for the first time he looked into her face with tenderness. Her eyes were brilliant but unfocused, and her cheeks and forehead were flushed. Still cradling her, he went to his pallet and laid her gently down. At once she began to tremble, looking silently at him for a brief moment before turning her face away. 

"Shh, now..." he soothed, speaking gently for the first time. She stiffened at the sound of his voice, but did not look at him again. He rose, and went to his rough wooden trestle table and poured clean water from a stone ewer into a hollowed wooden bowl, and gathered a piece of clean fabric=2E 

He went to her, kneeling on the hide-covered floor next to the pallet. Wetting the piece of fabric, he touched it gently to the side of her neck closest to him. Immediately, she turned her head to see him, her eyes wide open in shock. 

"Quiet!" he commanded, not wanting to risk another incident of panic. "Stay still, please, and don't listen to any ideas you may have about getting away. My knife is only just over there, and I think you have some idea of how fast I can move. Don't you, now?" She swallowed and nodded. Methos resumed bathing her neck, and when that was finished, he began on her face, wiping tear-streaked dirt from her cheeks with the gentlest of touches. 

She seemed to grow more agitated as he continued; he could perceive the struggle she was making to force herself to lie still. Choosing his moment carefully, Methos turned her face towards his own with both hands and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth. Immediately she stiffened and tried to pull away, but he held her resolutely until he had fully explored her. When he was finished, as she gasped for breath and began to buck and struggle on the pallet, Methos anchored her head by tangling one hand in her incredible hair, and slapped her across the face as hard as he could. 

"You are going to trust me, damn you, or you are going to die!" He captured both of her flailing hands in one of his own and pinned them above her head. With his free hand he gripped her throat again, applying enough force to allow her only the slightest sips of air. When she was finally still he relaxed the pressure, admiring the fresh tears that sparkled in her eyes, and the bloom of her skin where he had wiped her free of dirt. 

"I don't want to hurt you any more today," he told her sternly. Her eyes looked deeply into his, wide with fear and vulnerability. For the first time she whimpered, a soft and helpless noise that seemed to lance him to his erotic core. Methos clenched his teeth and forced himself to disregard his more immediate needs, resisting the overwhelming urge to strip her shift off and fuck her right then and there. His testicles felt heavy and tight, and his cock felt like it was going to burst out of his breeches and leap at her of its own volition. Ignoring his furiously clamoring body, he held her face still so that she could not look away. 

"You are _mine_ ," he growled at her. "You live because _I_ want you to live. You will die when I want you to die. You are here to please me, and that is exactly what you will do. Do you understand?" she nodded, and her wrists relaxed slightly under his hand. 

Methos leaned over and kissed her again, and although he felt her go tense with fear, this time she didn't resist. He plundered her mouth slowly but roughly, his free hand gathering warmth through her shift as it rested on her narrow waist. She did not return his kiss, but her breathing suddenly caught as if on a thorn, and he could feel her confusion as part of her responded against her will. Continuing the kiss, Methos began a slow exploration of her body, gently this time, light and tender caresses calculated to vanquish her reserve. 

Methos had centuries of practice in the arts of seduction, and he brought this experience to bear now, drawing on his considerable talents to weigh against her fear and loathing. He patiently sought her desire, looking for the key which would unlock her heart and give him access to all that passion and fire she possessed in such abundance. 

He could sense her growing confusion, and he made sure to stop before confusion could become outright panic. He released her mouth and hands and pulled back from her a little. She was trembling again, but she did not move or look away; she only lay there looking at him with those amazing eyes of hers. 

"There's my good girl," he said, touching her face gently, "you are learning quickly, and that pleases me. Now, if you would continue to please me, I want you to get up and pour me some wine from the vessel near the table. Quickly now, you never know when my good mood will come to an untimely end." 

She stood, a little shaky on her feet, and went to the table to collect his cup before moving to the vessel of wine. Methos sat himself on his pallet, leaned back, and just enjoyed watching her move. Wine now in hand and with eyes downcast, she approached him warily, stopping to offer the cup when she was still at least three feet away. Moving like a striking snake, Methos grabbed the cup in one hand and her wrist in the other, pulling her onto his knee. Although at first she recoiled, she quickly remembered and sat docilely on his lap, her trembling hands folded demurely on her thighs. Methos laughed, and took a deep draught from his cup. 

"Such a fast learner! I knew when I saw you that you were worth saving. Now, I want you to take a sip of this wine, and then I want you to tell me what your name is. I can't very well go about calling you 'slave', unless, of course, you insist. Here." 

Methos offered her the cup. With both hands she accepted it, and managed despite her trembling to swallow some without spilling it all over herself. Methos took the cup from her gently, and brushed her hair away from her face so that she was open to him. "Now, your name?" 

She replied so softly that even in the quiet of the tent it was difficult to hear her. 

"My name is Cassandra," she whispered. Then, meeting his eyes, she asked in a much louder voice, "What are you going to do with me?" Immediately she looked away, as if she expected to be punished. 

Methos only stroked her soft hair back from her smooth forehead, and took another sip of his wine. "Well, Cassandra," he said, toying idly with one of her curls, appreciating its texture and heaviness, "you'll just have to wait and see, won't you?" 

It took him a week longer than he'd thought it would. 

It was time. He had been endlessly patient, purposefully stretching her boundaries by only the smallest degrees, making her depend on him for more and more. Now it was time for him to begin reaping the rewards of what he'd sown; if all went as he planned, by morning Cassandra's body, will, and soul would be his. 

He entered his tent quietly. She was standing near his small table, and for the first time he saw that his unexpected arrival made her smile spontaneously. Good. 

He came to her and took her in his arms. Her smile flickered out and faded, becoming the serious, wary look she wore whenever he touched her sexually. Noting this, he made himself wait, for a long moment simply holding her to him and stroking her hair. Quickly she relaxed against him, letting herself be held. 

Slowly Methos tilted her head back, capturing her eyes. She was nervous, that was obvious, but the accepting feel of her body against him told a different story. In the time that she'd been with him he had taught her what desire was, and she'd learned quickly. 

He bent forward and kissed her, and was immediately rewarded with a gentle sigh. Oh, this was almost too easy. He kissed her deeply, increasing the intensity and passion little by little until he could feel her trembling. When he pulled away her mouth remained open, gasping for breath, and she would have slumped to the floor if he hadn't been supporting her. 

"I feel... so strange," she said softly. 

"You feel me." Let her figure that one out. 

For the first time she looked at him with something like awe, and he saw her desire increase. Oh yes, everybody wants to fuck a god. 

He stepped away from her, first making sure that she was steady on her feet. 

"Take your robe off," he commanded. 

An immediate blush spread over her cheeks, and her eyes left his and looked demurely to the ground. When her brow furrowed in momentary indecision Methos felt a rush of arousal; she would be caught now, between her fear and her newly learned imperative to obey. 

Eyes still downcast, Cassandra put her hands to the tie of her robe and began to unfasten it. She didn't look at him as she stripped, and when she was done she made an unsuccesful attempt to cover herself with her hands= =2E 

Shame and desire. What a powerful combination. Methos felt himself hardening. 

"Drop your hands." She obeyed. 

"Look at me." She did, although it obviously cost her some effort. Her face was flaming, embarrassment flushing her upper body all the way to the rise of her breasts. 

As she watched he slowly began to remove his own clothing. He saw her start to tremble, but he didn't rescue her from her fear. As he bared his own body he was gratified to see reluctant fascination dawning in her eyes. 

He focused on her closely as he lowered his breeches. As he'd expected, her eyes were riveted on his erection, and her face displayed a moment of near panic. He simply stood there, letting her decide if she would run or not. If she did he was going to throw her to the ground and rape her; it had been too long since he'd had any release, and despite his enthusiasm for this experiment he was getting frustrated. 

She didn't run, but the panic remained, etched plainly on her face. 

"Lie down on the pallet," he told her. 

Her breathing stuttered, her eyes widening. He watched her struggle with herself, feeling a small triumph when she docilely turned and went, stretching out gracefully. 

He approached and stood over her, withstanding an urge to touch himself. He would have liked to ease the ache, but he wanted her attention on him right now, not just on his cock. 

=46rom under the folded fur that served him as a pillow he drew four long, soft strips of leather, remnants from a hide he'd cut apart long ago for just this purpose. Cassandra saw them, and he saw her eyes widen with understanding even as she tensed with fear. Her hands gripped the edges of his bed in panic, and he knew she was about to bolt. He knelt and brought his face close to her own. 

"Be still, Cassandra," he told her firmly. "I don't want to hurt you." She froze. 

He put three of the strips next to his knee, keeping the last one and running it slowly through his fingers. Cassandra watched this, terrified. 

"Be still," he repeated, reaching for her hand. 

Her small and delicate wrist was thrumming with energy, but she didn't resist him as he quickly secured her to one of the pallet's supports. As he picked up another strip he heard her breathing start to escalate; by the time he'd secured her other hand she was nearly panting, almost hysterical. 

Methos leaned over her and stroked her face, bending slowly to her mouth. As soon as he kissed her she began to quiet, and he moved his mouth from hers and down to her neck. He found a throbbing vein there, and slowly he smoothed his tongue across it, again and again until he heard her utter a startled noise of astonishment. When he backed away her eyes were hot, dilated with surprise and desire. He smiled kindly at her. 

"That's right, Cassandra. I just want to make you feel good." She shivered. 

He touched her body tenderly, watching her resist her own responses. He shifted himself lower and began stroking her legs, feeling the taut muscles gradually relax. When all trembling had ceased, he went and stood at the foot of the pallet. He leaned over and gently grasped her ankles, pulling softly to try to open her legs. Abruptly she froze again. 

He didn't say a thing. He simply looked at her, his calm and commanding eyes staring into her panicked ones. Her entire body wrenched with a deep shudder, but then her resistance slowly faded and he was able to spread her open so that each ankle hung off either side of the pallet. He held her there firmly for a moment, letting her feel his strength. 

"I'm going to tie your legs now," he said softly, "and you will not move. Do you understand?" 

She nodded, but he saw tears beginning to well in her eyes. His cock pulsed. 

He released her ankles slowly but didn't move away, simply standing at the bottom of the bed while she was naked and opened beneath him. He watched her, saw her wrestling with panic as she struggled not to close her legs. Abruptly the tears which were threatening spilled over and began running down her cheeks, and then Methos was the one struggling, forcing himself to disregard his own ferocious desire. If he wanted to, he could be buried in her waiting body with two quick movements and one hard push. 

Resisting the urge to leap at her, he went to her face and knelt, wiping her tears away and smoothing her forehead. 

Before he could rise she looked piteously into his eyes. "Methos," she sighed, "I'm so afraid..." 

He leaned forward, staring into her eyes with determined intent. 

"Cassandra," he said sternly, "I've taken your life, and I've given back your life. Tonight I make you a woman." That should do it. 

It did. Her eyes went thoughtful and far away, and he saw her desire rise again. 

He picked up the remaining strips and went to her ankles, quickly fastening each one. She didn't move. 

He turned to his low table and picked up a small earthenware cup containing some sandalwood oil. She watched him, her eyes wary but curious. 

He returned to the pallet and knelt, placing the cup by his knee. He leaned down and began to kiss her demandingly, cupping her breasts and running teasing fingers over her rapidly hardening nipples. He could feel her twisting in her restraints, fighting her body which was trying to arch into his touch. 

Without releasing her mouth he put one hand down into the cup of oil, finding it unerringly. When his fingers were dripping, he moved his hand directly between her legs. 

There was a startled yelp which was muffled by his mouth on hers, and he felt her body palpitate with combined fear and want. His cock ached terribly as he felt her trying to push towards him and shrink away at the same time. 

He slid his oiled fingers deeper into her cleft, anticipation clenching in his balls as he felt how incredibly tight and hot she was. More oil. Definitely. 

When he pulled his hand away she made a subtle sound of disappointment, followed by a slightly louder sound of desire when his drenched hand slipped back against her. 

He finally ended the kiss, watching fascinated as her head tossed and she pulled delicately against her restraints. He massaged her deftly, increasing the intensity of the stimulation until her nipples were erect and her whole little body was shaking, his own need cresting as she moaned quietly. 

As her hips twisted and rose off the bed, indicating that she was about to come, he stopped rubbing her, pressing his whole hand closely over her crotch. Cassandra gasped, thrashing momentarily against the leather which bound her, and he guessed that if she hadn't been tied she would have grabbed his hand and forced him back onto herself. Lovely. 

Abruptly he stood up and carefully moved between her open legs, unable to wait any longer. The fear and desire in her eyes was now flickering back and forth very rapidly, and Methos watched her face carefully as he took hold of his suffering, neglected cock and positioned himself. 

Heat. Incredible, searing heat just touching her with the tip. His whole body was shaking, and he thought perhaps that he had waited too long; he wasn't going to be very patient, not when his body was craving like this. 

Cassandra's eyes were wide, desire and fear both fled in momentary shock. Methos moved forward, lodging himself firmly and beginning a slow push into her. Suddenly she stiffened in pain, and a little cry escaped her. 

He was so desperate; the sensation of forcing himself into her, the squeezing, tormenting tightness only made bearable by the frictionless oil, and Methos knew that as much as he would have liked to prolong her defloration he had to get inside her. Now. 

Gathering himself, he shoved hard. For a moment he thought it wasn't going to work, that she was just too small, but then he leaned forward and reached underneath her shoulders, using this handhold as leverage to pull her down onto himself. Cassandra shrieked with pain, twisting in his grip, but finally he felt something give, and then he was buried deeply inside her, all the way to his balls. 

Blood, he could feel blood flowing between them as he tried to stay still=2E He covered Cassandra's mouth with one hand, watching tears squeeze out of her eyes and run down the sides of her face. 

Her body was rigid with pain, but he couldn't wait for her to adjust. He pulled back a little and then drove into her again, panting hard at the ecstasy of the silky sheath that clenched around him. 

He had to let himself go then, had to fuck her. His hips moved with desperate urgency; his hand fell away from Cassandra's mouth and gripped fiercely onto her hair. He moved over her again and again, almost regretting how quickly he was approaching orgasm. 

To his surprise Cassandra began moving against him, her head arched back and her body shaking. Methos leaned down to her offered neck, biting softly, and she groaned, hips bucking seductively beneath him. 

Suddenly she cried out, and he felt her body clamp down on him almost painfully. She was pushing herself against him so hard that it lifted both of them up. 

Methos grabbed her shoulders again and finished the way he'd started, pulling her viciously onto his rigid cock, gushing out inside her in what felt like a torrent. He groaned and Cassandra screamed, in pleasure, pain, or both, he didn't care, it was all exquisite. 

As she quieted he felt the pulses contracting around him slowly come to a stop. She was panting now, her head still thrown back. He shifted slightly inside her and she winced, but even so he felt her push back toward him, already responding to continued desire. 

Methos pulled out of her slowly, moving back until he was kneeling between her feet. She looked at him curiously, still shaking, curiosity changing to disbelief as he bent down and put his open mouth between her bloody thighs. When she felt his tongue she cried out again, he felt her legs pushing against her restraints as she tried to spread them wider. He licked her slowly, a brief tease before he plunged in and began arousing her in earnest. Within moments she was coming against his mouth, moaning and shivering as her legs strove to close around him. When she was still again he pulled himself away, moving over her and kissing her deeply. Her mouth was stained red, and he put out one finger to rub blood slowly back and forth over her lips. 

"Now you're a woman," he said calmly. She stared at him as if she were seeing him for the first time, and he knew that no-one would ever look to her quite the way he did in this moment. 

"Tell me, Cassandra," he asked quietly, "whose woman are you?" 

Her eyes were huge and dark. "Yours, Methos," she panted, "I'm yours." 

* * *

Methos accepted the cup she offered him as he entered the tent, grateful for the shade and for the cold wetness in his dry and dusty throat. 

"It's good," he told her as he sat on his pallet. 

"I cooled it in the river for you," she replied, coming to him with a damp cloth and sitting next to him. Methos allowed her to bathe his hands, responding automatically to her chatter. She brought the cloth to his face and gently began to remove his warpaint. 

Through the cloth, Methos felt her hand begin to tremble. His eyes locked with hers, and suddenly he was excruciatingly aware of her, that she was so close, that she smelled good, and that she wanted him. He could feel the intensity of her longing, and it ignited his own arousal to know that she had been brought to this state of desire and need in such a brief time. 

Despite all her pride, despite her defiance and the purity of her hatred, she sat there wanting him. He could feel the conflict inside her, as she was so neatly caught between the well-known yet fading promptings of her innocence, and the powerful new urges which he had forced to awaken. 

They had been lovers for four days. He had lavished Cassandra with centuries of experience, and inevitably, perhaps helplessly, she had responded. All of a sudden he found himself recalling the sounds she'd made, that first time, and he reached to cup her face. Cassandra arched under his hand, rubbing against him almost like a cat. 

It was at that moment that Kronos entered the tent. Methos drew away from Cassandra as the other man walked in, feeling he should have known better. He remembered the number of excuses he'd made lately, the times he hadn't joined in with Kronos' little entertainments. Of course, he thought, putting the whore above their games would attract Kronos' attention. How had he let himself forget that? Well, now that he had, he was sure that Kronos would do his best to ensure that Methos never forgot again. 

"My compliments brother," Kronos said with mock admiration, "you've taught her well at everything, I see." Despite his practiced casual tone, there was a nearly palpable sense of menace in his approach. He plucked a fruit from the bowl on Methos' small table, and admired it for a moment. 

"And," he continued, "it seems she keeps the best fruit for you." 

Methos carefully kept his face neutral, not wanting Kronos to construe anything into a challenge. "It's no different from the rest," he said carelessly. 

Kronos waved that away, keeping his attention riveted on Methos. "Maybe it just tastes better in here." He eyed Cassandra coldly. "You've made quite a prize of her, haven't you?" 

Methos met Kronos' ice with ice. "She's no different from the others." 

"Except you seem to prefer her to all others." Kronos pointed out lightly=2E "Why is that? Have you grown attached?" 

Methos rose to his full height. "No." 

"Good!" Suddenly Kronos' bantering manner was replaced with the unmistakable tones of confrontation. "I didn't think you'd make a mistake like that, brother, because now it's time to share the spoils of war!" 

Methos briefly considered his options, and decided that it was probably in his best interest to let Kronos have his own way. He held the other man's gaze a moment longer, then stepped quickly around him toward the tent flap. Conflict avoided, Kronos' whim satisfied, and probably only a minor setback in his Cassandra experiment. He didn't like it, but he could accept it. He almost felt he was getting off too easily. 

He braced himself for the screams he knew would happen when Kronos, in his usual charming style of foreplay, dragged her across the encampment- but they didn't come. Instead a remorseless grip on his forearm arrested his progress, and abruptly he was whirled around to stare straight into the cruel light of Kronos' mad, dancing eyes. His stomach dropped, and he realized that he probably hadn't gotten off so lightly after all. 

"Methos," Kronos began, now grinning with high good humor, "you are quite sure, aren't you, that you haven't grown attached to her?" 

Methos tried to wrench his arm out of Kronos' brutal grip, but the other man held on tightly. "I told you, brother," he said, coldly meeting Kronos' gaze, "she means nothing to me." 

"Ah, excellent!" Kronos said happily, leaning closer until they were almost nose to nose, until Methos could smell the other man's leather and sweat. "Then you won't mind... _assisting_ me with this little endeavor." 

Methos felt his stomach drop alarmingly: the beginning of a panic response which he ruthlessly suppressed. He was fairly sure that Kronos didn't have a simple double teaming rape on his mind, but something with a power game to it, something that would make him lose face, and right now he couldn't afford that. He stepped as far back as the grip on his arm would allow and looked over Kronos' shoulder to Cassandra. Her eyes were wide with horror, her head shaking from side to side in endless negation. 

"She's just a child," Methos said calmly, "I hardly think you'll need my assistance." 

"Yes, brother," Kronos replied agreeably, "but it should make no difference to you, since you are so _blissfully unattached_." The last two words hissed with bitter sarcasm, and suddenly Kronos was stepping close to him again, a direct and irrefutable challenge blazing in his eyes. "I'm going to have this little prize of yours; and you, my brother, are going to hold her down for me." 

Methos wondered if Kronos really thought he was attached, and had designed a punishment to fit. Methos couldn't be sure. Knowing Kronos, this was probably a trap, and he could already sense the other man's anger. 

That decided him. Let Kronos take it out on Cassandra- he supposed he'd find another like her someday. 

Kronos' hand clenched harder on his arm, and Methos knew that the other man had seen his unwillingness even before he spoke. 

"Think of it, brother," Kronos murmured to him, "this little slut heaving in your lap while I fuck her." 

Methos swallowed reflexively, dismayed to find himself responding to the pictures his rebellious brain furnished him with, despite the fear twisting in his gut. His cock began to harden in his breeches even as he thought of every conceivable reason that this was a bad idea. Automatically he put on his most placating and reasonable behavior. 

"Now listen, Kronos," he began, pulling gently but ineffectually away from the hand which held him, "I promise you, I am not attached to her! I've just been playing a foolish game with her, that's all. Just to see if I could—" 

"If you could make her fall in love with you, yes- I know." Kronos interrupted, nodding wisely. "Did you really think I wouldn't figure out your little travesty of manipulation, Methos? Did you honestly imagine that I would not see what was directly before my eyes?" Kronos laughed heartily. "Oh, my most valued brother," he continued, "you know I won't believe that! This is all part of your plan, is it not? Part of your scheme to prove that I need you! Really Methos," he chided, "I'm almost ashamed of you-stripped to the bone it's simplicity itself! Of all of us, it is you who understands the true nature of what we are. It is your mind that makes you so necessary a part of the Horsemen, but it is that same mind that undermines your belief that you are vital. You decide, therefore, to slip away bit by bit, all the time leaving me careful hints so that I can more easily gather you back into the fold, more irreplaceable than ever." Kronos finally released his hold on the other man's forearm, shifting slightly to put one brotherly hand on each of Methos' shoulders instead. 

Methos was just a little bit selfconscious as he smiled at Kronos. "Well, Kronos," he said, "how wonderful it is to be understood so clearly! I'm glad you put it all together so well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to see about —" 

Suddenly Kronos was in front of him, blocking his exit. Methos met his eyes and immediately felt himself mesmerized by their deadly joviality. 

"Oh-but you can't walk out now," Kronos said reprovingly. "How would I ever be sure that you understood how much I count on you? You see, I have decided to give you what you really want: incontrovertible proof that I need you, that I just couldn't do it without you." Kronos took a step closer, suddenly menacing once more. "Never again will you have occasion to doubt my absolute control, Methos." 

Methos forcefully drew his eyes away from Kronos, focusing instead on Cassandra's frightened face over the other man's shoulder. The feeling of drowning abated at once, although the uncomfortable arousal continued, even increased. He took a deep breath and faced Kronos squarely. 

"I am glad, brother," Methos began defiantly, "that you find her appealing. I hope she pleases you. However, it is not a part of any plan of mine to help you to her, and I won't do it." 

He expected some sort of explosion, but Kronos only smiled and moved close enough so that Methos could feel the reflected desert heat baking from him. "But it is part of _my_ plan, brother," Kronos insisted, "otherwise the lesson will be but half learnt." Suddenly, shockingly, Kronos' hand was between Methos' legs, cupping his erection. Methos gasped in disbelief, but was powerless to move away from the heavy grip of that hand or the attentive look in those mad eyes. "I know you, Methos," he said confidently, "I know what you need. If you're quite sure that you're not ready to join in," here Kronos gave him a slight squeeze, "then you can simply stay and watch. But don't think you can fool me, Methos. I can see that spark deep in your eyes. You will ultimately be betrayed by your own appetites, brother- I am simply giving you that which I know you desire." 

Methos finally wrenched himself away from the other man, and turned his back on them both. "Do whatever you need to!" he said coldly. "Just don't expect my help." 

Kronos chuckled behind him, and patted him gently on the shoulder. "As you wish, brother." Methos felt him go, sighing quietly in relief. He closed his eyes tightly and willed his erection to go away. It didn't. 

"Now, you little slut—" Kronos said harshly. Methos heard a brief scuffle, and a hiss from Cassandra. "I see you've left some spirit in her, brother! Excellent!" There was a sound of a slap, and then she was crying out to him, desperation plain in her voice. 

"Methos, please!" she cried, "don't do this! Don't let him do this, please- don't let him touch me - I'd rather die first!" 

"That can be arranged," Kronos said, his voice as cold and sharp as a blade, "or, had you forgotten?" There was a sudden and surprisingly loud sound of cloth being torn. 

Methos curled his hands into fists and tried to stop shaking. Why couldn't Kronos have just dragged her away? Why hadn't he let Methos just walk out? The sounds assaulted him, tearing at his resolve. He wanted desperately to storm out of the tent and towards the first available captive, but he didn't quite dare. He just stood where he was, fending off the waves of desire caused by this auditory voyeurism. There was no way of hearing what was going on without being swamped with images of Kronos taking his pleasure with Cassandra. Knowing Kronos, he'd be tearing into her within seconds. He took a deep breath and spoke. 

"Kronos-wait!" 

Abruptly he turned to them. Cassandra was naked, her shift lying in rags at her feet. Kronos was clad only in his long shirt, and had both of her arms secured in his hands. Both of them were looking at him, Cassandra with barely flickering hope, Kronos smugly. Keeping his eyes averted from Kronos' direct gaze, Methos took a small earthen cup from his low table, still half-full of the scented oil he'd used when he took Cassandra's virginity. Her breath caught at the sight of it. 

"Here," he said, offering the cup to Kronos, "you might want this. She's sort of ... small." 

Kronos laughed derisively, but he took the cup. "Why, brother," he said, "how very like you to be so considerate of my well-being." Kronos smiled. Cassandra closed her eyes. Methos turned away again. 

More noises. Mostly Cassandra, those helpless frightened groans that made him feel like he was going to explode. Then Kronos' voice, barely more than conversational in tone: "Shut up." That made his cock throb madly. Now he could _smell_ them, the sandalwood scent of the oil heavy and combining perfectly with sexual musk. His trembling increased, and he briefly considered putting his hand in his breech and hoping that no-one would notice. Then Cassandra cried out sharply, and Kronos sighed with pleasure. 

Methos couldn't stand it anymore. He turned towards his pallet, where Cassandra had been laid across its width, her lower body hanging off the edge. Kronos was on his knees between her open thighs, completely naked, the muscles in his powerful back and ass moving rhythmically, hypnotically. Methos was mesmerized. He felt very strange, completely numb except for the aching need in his groin. Swallowing convulsively, he approached them. 

Kronos stilled at once, turning to look at him. A victorious smile lit his face radiantly, but the warmth never reached his eyes. 

"Ah! Brother!" he said mockingly, "I wondered what was taking so long. Please," he gestured with one of Cassandra's hands to the pallet next to them, "won't you join us?" 

Methos sat beside them, and felt the strange numbness which had gripped him erode away under the influence of what was in front of him. Cassandra's eyes were firmly closed, her pain apparent. She was still so very tight, and Kronos wouldn't have been gentle forcing himself in- Methos guessed that she had fled as deeply into her mind as she could. Kronos was buried in her up to the hilt, and both of them were sheened with a light sweat=2E Methos forced his eyes away from the place where their bodies joined, but he found them immediately drawn back, fascinated. As he watched Kronos thrust into Cassandra's forcefully opened center, and he stifled a gasp as heat raced through him, leaving him weak with erotic need. 

Kronos leaned farther back to give Methos greater access, shifting his hold to Cassandra's hips and freeing her arms. Methos took control of those, holding both slender wrists above her head with one large hand. He leaned over her, his free hand moving over her body as he dropped his head forward, gently squeezing one of her breasts just as his lips closed softly on hers. Cassandra's eyes opened and he felt her go rigid. Quickly he moved his hand from her breast to her throat, pressing with an unmistakeable threat until she relaxed. 

When he felt her surrender, he began to stroke her body, deepening the kiss. Under his hand and mouth he could feel a subtle rocking movement each time Kronos thrust into her, and that alone was driving him crazy. Above him Kronos was breathing in deep but measured breaths, forcefully controlled exhalations which blew across the back of his neck, causing his nipples to harden almost painfully. 

Methos poured all his frustrated and aching lust into his attention to Cassandra, flooding her with a skilled assortment of passionate caresses. Kronos made a wordless sound of enjoyment, and thrust harder, and Methos had to force himself not to groan out loud. 

Under his lips Cassandra was shaking her head back and forth repeatedly, begging without speaking for him to stop. Ignoring her, Methos once again stroked down her body, finally letting his hand go between her legs. 

She was amazingly hot, and drenched with oil. Methos tried to focus on her, trying not to be aware of the shaft which penetrated her only millimeters from his fingers. Resisting an urge to grind himself into the nearest available surface, Methos' fingers began a sensuous interplay of friction and pressure. Cassandra froze, and then turned her face away from him, breaking their kiss. 

"Please, Methos," she sobbed, "don't do this to me - not this!" 

"What?" Kronos asked incredulously, coming abruptly to a stop, "Do you think he's the only one who can make you come, you little slut? Well, we'll just have to see about that!" 

Kronos shifted his grip lower on Cassandra's body, his hands tilting her hips until he had her at the perfect angle. Methos' fingers brushed against Kronos' shaft, even hotter than the flesh he was caressing, and before he could stop himself he groaned. He didn't look at Kronos' face, but he could swear he _heard_ the bastard smiling. Methos had to look, he couldn't deny himself that, but he hoped that if he kept his head down and his eyelids lowered, Kronos wouldn't notice. 

Methos watched as Kronos pumped slowly, ending with a leisurely circular motion as he sheathed himself fully inside her. She gasped, and her hips bucked sharply in his hands. Again, Methos was too close; he had to shut his eyes for a moment while he struggled not to pant. He wanted to stop, to give himself a chance to regain control, but his eyes opened again of their own volition. Kronos continued the same slow thrusts, holding Cassandra utterly still for each stroke. She began to whimper, and Methos heard Kronos hiss with amusement. 

As Kronos slowed down so did Methos, sliding his fingers slowly over her center again and again, loving each flutter and pulse as she unwillingly responded to their joint seduction. He felt like he was melting. 

Suddenly Kronos thrust hard, one ruthless shove which slammed against Cassandra, rocking all three of them. She lost control of herself then, sobbing and shaking as her body arched against them both. Methos bit his own lower lip hard and kept rubbing in firm little circles between her legs, fascinated by this desperate struggle. 

Kronos kept driving himself into her, panting and dripping with sweat. He held on grimly as her hips bucked furiously and she tried to twist herself away, somehow keeping his place despite all the frenzy. Now he held her thighs, pushing them even more open for his assault. Cassandra's sobs were becoming involuntary groans. Her head whipped back and forth, and Methos had to draw back a little to keep from getting lashed by her hair. 

Kronos was relentless, now fucking her hard enough to lift her entirely off the pallet with each stroke. Suddenly Cassandra cried out sharply as she arched into him, turning her face away at the same time. Methos could feel her sex throbbing with each sound she made, each vibration of her body. He groaned with desire, burying his head against her chest and panting for breath as he waited for the agonizing torture in his balls to go away. 

Gradually he felt her pleasure ebb, and he rested quietly against her as she calmed little by little. He became aware that she was crying, softly. Methos raised his head and realized that Kronos had already pulled away from her, leaving them both half-supported by the pallet. Kronos had his shirt on, sitting in one of Methos' chairs and looking at them both with amusement. Methos got his own breathing under control, then addressed Kronos with barely concealed ill-temper, wiping sweat from his brow. 

"Well, brother? Haven't you had your fill yet?" 

Kronos gestured at both of them dismissively, chuckling. "I'll be out of the game for a while now, brother, but I don't think _she's_ quite done yet, and frankly," he confided, "neither are you. I think I'll just sit here and enjoy the show." 

Methos laughed, trying not to sound like someone who was desperately aroused. "I don't think so, Kronos," he muttered, "I'm afraid I'm not really in the mood to exhibit my prowess." 

Kronos smiled at him, and then shrugged. "As you wish, brother." He stood, snagging a piece of fruit from the bowl on the table as he did so. Methos closed his eyes and put his head back on Cassandra's chest, silently sighing with relief. There were various clanking noises as Kronos gathered up his armor and weapons, and then silence. When Methos looked up, Kronos was gone. 

Methos knew he hadn't gone far; the tingling awareness of his presence was still there. Kronos would be back, probably as soon as he could get himself hard again. 

He released Cassandra's arms and she immediately curled herself up into a ball, hands over her face muffling her sobs. Ignoring her, he stood and began loosening the thongs which held his leather armor in place. He stripped quickly, relishing the feel of the cooler air against his burning body. He turned to Cassandra, one hand briefly massaging his aching erection, already anticipating the feel of her. Moving close he bent over her, gently pulling her hands away from her face. She looked at him with mute accusation, tears brightening in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, = but Methos laid his hand softly across it, forbidding. 

"Now is not the time," he said, moving to kneel before her and trying to pull her legs open. She shook her head briefly in refusal, but Methos grabbed her firmly by the hair and brought their faces close. 

"Listen, you little whore," he hissed, "I'm going to do everything to you that he just did. Everything, down to the last detail. Now, I happened to notice that you got through it fine last time, so I suggest that you just lie back and enjoy yourself, unless you prefer the other way?" Cassandra shook her head softly, and Methos eased her back onto the pallet before grasping her hips and pulling them over the edge. He would have liked to prepare her, to tease her a little first since he was sure that he'd have some time before Kronos recuperated and came back for another go, but he simply couldn't. His body was screaming with repressed sexual tension and residual fear that cried for immediate release. 

As he positioned himself Cassandra closed her eyes, but Methos paid no heed. As he sank into her accommodating body she sighed gently, and he had to stop himself from collapsing at the sensation of being buried in her tight heat. Beneath him Cassandra shuddered, delighting him with rippling waves of pleasure. Closing his own eyes, he called up the vision of Kronos doing this very thing, feeling these same shocks of pleasure with each thrust. Behind his closed eyes Kronos' muscles flexed and bunched, highlighted with sweat and trembling with exertion and arousal. Methos negligently used Cassandra's body, fantasies spooling out for his private and solitary pleasure. 

Methos couldn't stand it for long; he felt like he had been waiting forever to come. He pumped harder into Cassandra's delicious tightness and relaxed, letting his pleasure build toward completion. 

Suddenly there was a fierce grip on his hair, and something cold and sharp pricked at his throat. Methos flinched away, his eyes flying open to discover Kronos smiling over him, knife in hand. At once he was numb and frozen. Fear cramped distantly through his body, but it felt very far away, certainly much too far away for him to do anything about it. Methos had heard nothing, sensed nothing. He realized with a sick lurch that Kronos must not have left at all, but concealed himself somehow in the shadows of the tent. 

"Well, my brother," Kronos said cheerfully, "I see you admire my technique. Perhaps it's time you got to experience it for yourself! I'm not quite as out of the game as I thought I was; not surprising, considering that I never came inside your little whore's cunt- I'm saving that for you." Kronos' mouth was suddenly right behind his ear, making him shiver, "A detail I can't quite believe you missed, given the way you were watching, or, shall I say, squinting?" Methos was cold with shame, hot with desire, and utterly caught. 

"Kronos," Methos began, unable to disguise the trembling in his voice, "what are you doing? Is this another part of your plan?" 

"Oh no, brother," Kronos demurred, "this is a part of _your_ plan. Or aren't you willing to admit it yet?" 

"Now look, Kronos, I—" he stopped at once as the grip on his hair tightened brutally and the knife at his throat pressed harder. 

"Enough of these pleasantries," Kronos said roughly, "now, are you ready for me, or would you prefer to fight me?" Suddenly Kronos was on his knees behind him, a rock hard and massive cock pressing through rough cloth against the cleft of Methos' buttocks. Methos had made a mistake when he had believed Kronos' claim to be wiped out for the moment. A big mistake. Now a rough hand lightly circled Methos' throat, sliding up in a caress before tightening briefly across his windpipe. He gasped sharply, and Kronos chuckled. 

Cassandra's body convulsed in fear, squeezing his still-sheathed cock, making him groan. He was amazed that his erection remained undiminished in spite of his terror, but he actually seemed to be harder than he had been before Kronos had put in an appearance. 

Methos was trapped. His body demanded that he come soon or he'd explode; his mind insisted that he keep his status with Kronos and maintain their ever-fragile balance of control and power. He wanted to think, a chance to examine the angles and determine the best way out of this; but he could feel the throbbing of the rigid shaft which pressed him forcefully into = the silky warmth around his erection, and thinking just wasn't going to happen. 

He hoped vaguely that Kronos wouldn't kill him. The last time Kronos had killed him, Caspian had strung him upside down on a stake in the middle of camp, and ridiculed him for hours before Kronos cut him loose. Of course, Caspian had paid, but that wasn't the point. 

Now Kronos was grinding against him, pushing him into Cassandra as her sex contracted around him like a beating heart. His muscles strained with the effort not to thrust, not to push back against the hardness behind him=2E 

He'd waited too long. The knife was back at his throat, and there was a sudden slicing pain as the tip penetrated him. "What's it going to be, Methos?" Kronos asked sweetly. "What's your pleasure?" Methos made a faint wordless noise of objection. 

"Don't think too long, brother," Kronos threatened, "sometimes your mind gets in your way." 

Methos licked his lips and tried to swallow although his throat was bone dry. It seemed to be an endless time before he was able to force himself to respond, with the only words that were really available. "I don't want to fight you, Kronos." 

Immediately the pressure against his neck eased, only the faintest cold tickle reminding him of the weapon which remained poised there. "Good. I don't really want to kill you." Abruptly, Kronos was gone. 

There was sudden coolness behind him where Kronos had been, but Methos didn't turn around. He heard a brief soft rustle of fabric and then the other man was there again, only this time Methos could feel naked flesh against his back. He shivered helplessly at this erotic sensation, and below him Cassandra quivered in response. Kronos made a wordless noise of approval and leaned away again. 

Suddenly Methos could smell sandalwood, and he knew what was coming only a moment before Kronos' slick fingers were between his legs. His testicles were caught in a warm, slippery grasp, kneaded gently for a moment and then released. Now there was pressure, and now sudden pain as Kronos' fingers invaded him. His breath caught, and he had to force himself to stay still. 

Before he could even begin to adjust to the sensation the fingers were gone. Methos tried to force himself to relax, to remember how he'd done this in the past and liked it. Of course, in the past he hadn't been raped at knife-point by a maniac, but he hoped the difference would be mere semantics. 

A hand on his lower back pushed him all the way forward, burying him deeply into Cassandra. Silently she throbbed around him as Kronos leaned closer, breathing harshly in his ear. 

Once again he felt the cold shiver of blade against his neck, and then Kronos put his oiled cock against him and shoved. The pain was both immediate and immense, tearing through him as if he were being skewered by a huge shaft of fire. He screamed, helpless to stop himself, but Kronos had anticipated him once again and brutally clamped a hand over his mouth, effectively stifling him. 

Methos lost control of himself and began to struggle, desperate to get away from the burning cock which was tearing him to pieces. But the struggle shoved him into Cassandra's tight wet heat, making him gasp, and abruptly the knife was pressed hard against him, the sharp tip again puncturing the skin of his throat. Methos froze, panting heavily against the hand which muffled him. 

"I see you're not quite sure yet, my brother," Kronos said slyly. "Let me see if I can help you decide what you want." 

Suddenly he was bent forwards, forced down onto Cassandra's warm moist body. The shaft inside him eased even deeper, and dimly he felt something tear open. He sobbed, his sounds unfettered now as Kronos released his mouth only to take both his arms in a viselike grip. His wrists were pulled roughly behind him, and he felt them being secured firmly with some sort of leather strap. Soon he was completely immobilized, tied forearm to forearm across his own back. Cassandra was staring at him as if mesmerized. 

"There now," Kronos muttered soothingly, "now maybe we can complete this little travesty of enforcement. Or- are you ready to tell me how much you've wanted this?" 

"No!" he cried in a voice he barely recognized as his own, "Kronos, let me go! I never wanted... I don't want this, curse you!" Kronos' hips swivelled, tearing him even further, and Methos felt tears springing to his eyes. "Kronos, please! I'll be—" 

Kronos tsked, the disappointed sound of a teacher let down by a star pupil, and suddenly his hands were around Methos' throat, choking brutally. "You'll be my hole and like it, Methos, that's what you'll do. You'll take what I give you to take, and you'll swallow what I give you to swallow." Suddenly the strangling pressure eased, and Methos whooped for breath. "Now, I don't really want to gag you, since I am looking forward so very much to hearing all your touching little expressions, but I'll stretch a point if you insist, just to spare you Caspian's good humor. So, then, what's it going to be? Will you shut the fuck up, or would a gag help you feel a little more like I'm doing this against your will?" 

Methos was silent. He closed his eyes, and hot tears of pain and terror began to flow. Behind him Kronos chuckled. 

His hair was being gathered up, held away from his face in the other man's fist. Then his head was pulled back at an excruciating angle as Kronos used his hair to yank him backwards onto that tormenting lance which was splitting him. He heard Kronos grunt roughly and bit his tongue hard in an effort not to scream. The pull on his hair stayed taut, his neck arched painfully as Kronos thrust inside him again and again. Kronos was pushing harder now, trying with each stroke to shove into him as far as possible. 

Methos realized that he was screaming anyway, but the angle of his neck turned his screams to harsh cawing sounds. Tears ran freely down his face, and dimly he began to pray that he would pass out, die, anything to be free of this invading agony. For a few moments the thrusts escalated to a savage intensity, the pain flaring, and then Kronos was still, buried as deeply inside him as possible, and his hair was abruptly released. He sagged forward onto Cassandra's drenched body, helpless to stop the sobbing and trembling which wracked him. Dimly he heard her frightened gasps, then he realized that despite the pain his erection remained undiminished, and that her noises probably had more to do with the way Kronos was shoving him into her than anything else. 

Now the hands on him were gentle, tender stroking movements which moved from his wet face to his cramped shoulders, over his bound arms and down to his buttocks. Gradually his breathing eased, the flow of his tears tapering off. His body had finally begun to adjust, and the presence inside him was almost tolerable. Kronos shifted his hips a little, and even through the pain something flared inside him like a small conflagration of nerves. He hissed in surprise. 

"Ah, my brother," Kronos said, "you'd like that, wouldn't you? Oh yes." Gentle hands caressed his buttocks, tenderly easing him open, and Methos couldn't repress a sigh. 

Suddenly the hands on him cinched cruelly tight, bruising. "Well I wouldn't," Kronos snarled. Methos' breath stopped dead in his throat. "D'you know what you are, Methos? You are a slave to cock, that's what." Rough hands held him wide open, and Kronos slammed into him, hard. "I bet I could make you come just by looking at you, that's how badly you want it. Well, I'm not going to do that, Methos." Another brutal stroke, this one hard enough to make both him and Cassandra cry out. "I'm not going to seduce you with some well-placed flattery and a few minutes of heavy petting. I'm simply going to fuck... your... ass..." each word was now grunted out as Kronos rammed him, "and you... are going... to love it... you little... cock-slave... oh fuck!" 

Kronos' hands shoved him back and forth, seeking only his own pleasure as he brutally invaded him over and over. Suddenly Methos wished that the overwhelming pain would come back, that something, anything would distract him from the response his outraged body made to being so ruthlessly used=2E Beneath him Cassandra was climaxing, shivering and moaning as she clenched and pulsed around his unyielding erection. He realized with a shock that she had been doing this for a while, coming helplessly again and again as the assault behind him drove him repeatedly into her. 

Methos found himself in a strange place where the pain simply drove the pleasure higher, and he bit his own lower lip in frustration. This added pain only increased his erotic sensation, so he stopped. ( _I will not come_ ), he thought desperately, ( _I can't come. He can't make me. At least I can't let him know that he did._ ) 

He realized that he was in imminent danger of not caring what Kronos did or said or thought, and he tried grimly to stop the flood of pleasure which swamped him, increasing with each frenzied moment. He failed. Every one of his senses was deluged with arousal. Struggling against his restraints only urged his body on. Kronos' grunts of pleasure and the terrible thoroughness of the rape reduced his world to the space between the next thrust and the next constriction of Cassandra's body on him. Helplessly Methos felt himself struggling against the onslaught of ecstasy. 

Kronos' cruel hands maneuvered his hips, seeking the best angle. Finally Kronos found it, a torturous position which made Methos feel like his spine would snap and sent him sliding rapidly back and forth between the ferocious assault behind him and the wet suction below. Methos surrendered. He began to funnel all the tension in his body into his approaching orgasm, finally allowing himself to cry out, not restraining the shudders which convulsed him as he spread his legs wide for Kronos' brutal thrusts. Now he felt each one pushing him closer to coming, and he sobbed with the pain and the bliss of being right there, after so very, very long. 

Suddenly the shaft which drove him was gone. His hips were still held firmly in place, but the burning cock which fueled his desire had left him empty, aching, trembling on the edge of an orgasm which remained out of reach. He cried out in shock and despair. 

"I didn't say you could come, Methos," Kronos panted, "and you certainly didn't ask me." 

Methos gritted his teeth with shame and tried to stop the words which poured from him. "Kronos, please... oh-anything you want, just... please..." Dimly he wondered who he would hate more after it was all over: Kronos or himself. 

"I want you to come when I do. Do you understand me?" Kronos demanded. 

Methos nodded in helpless assent. Kronos gripped his hair again, and Methos felt the head of Kronos' cock at the entrance to his body. 

"Alright then," Kronos said, "make me come if you can." 

Methos sobbed, shivering as he pushed himself back onto the other man's shaft. Again there was pain, but nevertheless the response in his own body was immediate, burning waves of pleasure that filled some huge and barely understood need. Slowly his control eroded as he fucked himself on Kronos' cock, moaning endlessly as he rocked back and forth, lost in desire. Behind him Kronos was panting hoarsely, and Methos grew more frenzied with each moment as his need to push the other man over the edge increased. 

Suddenly the grip on his hair tightened, and then his head was pulled agonizingly back as Kronos slammed into him, thrusting furiously. 

"That's it, Methos," he growled. "There... Take it..." Kronos groaned, and Methos felt the cock buried inside him pulse with release. Suddenly he was coming, completely paralyzed with wave after wave of pleasure as he spilled himself into Cassandra's throbbing body. He felt like his soul was pouring out, like he was giving everything he had with his essence. Sweat, tears and semen flowed from him, and he was slowly becoming empty-a hollow vessel. There was one last bright pain, one throb of agony as Kronos gave him a final ruthless shove, and then there was only cold air behind him. 

He laid his head on Cassandra's damp shoulder and wept, with release, with horror, shame and even more shameful awakening of desire. 

He felt the parting of the strap which bound his arms, and he gritted his teeth as sensation tingled back into his bloodless and aching hands. He couldn't move. He couldn't say anything. He wanted to cover himself, to turn over and begin the horrendous task of putting himself back together, at least to not be so very exposed, but he simply couldn't make himself do it. He heard Kronos leave the tent. Whistling. 

There were warm and gentle arms around him, soothing hands stroked everywhere, slowly easing the pain from his brutalized body. He tried to stop crying but was unable, the sobs and tears came fast and hard and there was no holding them back. Cassandra was telling him how sorry she was, placing soft kisses on his forehead. Somehow she had maneuvered herself out from underneath him, and he didn't resist as she rolled him fully onto the pallet and stretched out by his side. Against his better judgement Methos curled himself into her, taking the comfort she offered. He knew he should talk to her, start trying to repair all the damage that had been done, but his reserves of energy were tapped out, empty. Before he knew what was happening he was actually drifting off to sleep, tears drying on his still-painted cheeks as he gave himself up to darkness and the eradication of memory. 

* * *

The sun was blazing down on desert hardpan as Methos strode purposefully across the encampment and ducked into his tent. Cassandra whirled toward him as he entered, her eyes momentarily wide with fear which diminished when she recognized him. 

"He's coming," he said, and watched as the fear immediately sprang back into her eyes. She began to disrobe, watching him intently. 

Methos began removing his own clothing, undressing quickly and piling his garments on top of his trunk. Although he felt like he was moving too slowly, it seemed to be only a moment before he was naked. Despite the heat of the day, he shivered. 

Then Cassandra was there, as naked as he, bowl of water and cloth in hand=2E Quickly she sponged him clean of dust and grime, and he had a moment of revelation when he realized how expert her touch had become. He closed his eyes and tried not to think. 

It wasn't long before Cassandra had finished with him, and then she was pressing something into his hand. He opened his eyes, and saw that it was the oil. Of course. He turned to her, dipping his fingers into the cup, and at once the smell of sandalwood evoked an instant visceral response of fear, shame and lust which made him simultaneously nauseated and eager. Cassandra stood beside him, her feet straddled far apart and her eyes downcast. He reached between her legs, gently preparing both of her passages for easy access. She shivered, and he kissed her tenderly on the forehead. 

When he finished he handed the cup to her, turning his back. His breath caught as he felt the now familiar internal pressure, even though she was gentle and there was no pain. When he was slick and ready for use Cassandra put the oil on the table, then came up behind him to run her hands down his back, gently trying to dissipate the tension that already thrummed in his muscles. 

Abruptly he turned to her and held her tightly. She folded trustingly against him and a fierce wave of protectiveness burned through his heart. Once again he found himself wondering, pondering on the circumstances that had landed him here in this impossible situation, and nibbling ferret-like at the meager loop of possibilities for escape. 

* * *

When Methos had woken after that first time, the first thing he did was push Cassandra away from him. Without even bothering to wash he pulled his breeches and boots on, ignoring the horrible stiffness in his limbs, and took his sword in one hand, heading for the flap of the tent. Cassandra tried to stop him but Methos simply shoved her one-handed into a corner, striding out into the fiery heat of mid-morning. 

He caught up to Kronos on the far side of the encampment, tying fresh hides to stretch and toughen in the sun. Methos drew his blade from its scabbard as he approached, not stopping until he was directly in front of Kronos with the edge pressed against his throat. 

Kronos didn't make a single move to defend himself. He simply smiled, looking particularly full of good cheer. 

"Good morning, brother!" he exclaimed amicably. He extended a looped roll of fiber he was using to tie hides to the stretching stakes. "Care to give me a hand?" 

"Commend yourself to your gods, Kronos," Methos hissed, "and prepare to make their acquaintance." 

Kronos' smile never faltered. He dropped the roll of fiber and put one finger to the tip of the blade which lay against him, moving it away effortlessly. "I think not, Methos." 

Methos moved the blade back, relishing the feeling of his hands controlling a sword which rested threateningly against Kronos' neck. "I think so, you raping, murdering bastard." 

Methos was not prepared to have Kronos casually reach out and grasp his cock through his breeches. He gasped. 

"Now now, brother," Kronos chided playfully, "if we start by calling names who knows where we'll stop?" Kronos fondled him tenderly through the soft cloth of his breeches while his other hand stroked firmly from his jaw past his throat and down his bare chest. 

Methos couldn't believe how quickly he was hardening to a full-blown erection, and he suddenly felt like his best bet would be to throw the sword, and run. 

"Get your vile hands off me," Methos warned, pressing harder with his blade. 

"You don't want to kill me, Methos," Kronos purred, still massaging. 

"Let go of me right now, Kronos, if you want to live," Methos said malevolently. 

Suddenly one of Kronos' hands covered his own on the hilt of the sword, and before he knew quite how the blade had been flung away. Kronos twisted his hand to a painful angle, tightening the grip on his cock at the same time. Methos winced and cried out. 

"I'm no use to you dead, Methos," Kronos chuckled, "you know that as well as I." 

Methos was infuriated. "Will you stop acting like I wanted it, Kronos? You raped me, and I don't stand for that any more than you would. I'm going to kill you for it. I've never —" 

"You've never come so hard in your whole bloody life, Methos," Kronos interjected, tipping him a lascivious wink as he gave his cock an affectionate squeeze. "Can you truly tell me that you still don't understand that this is what you've wanted? Oh really? Of course, I'd be happy to prove it to you, if you insist." 

Suddenly, the clarity of Methos' anger was dimmed and he was abruptly unsure, wondering stupidly why he was standing here protesting his unwillingness while he was throbbing passionately under Kronos' hand. Somehow the sun was too bright, burning across his bare shoulders and swamping him with heat, muddling his thoughts. 

"What is this now?" Methos asked defensively, passing one shaky hand over his eyes, "you're not satisfied with my body, so you have to fuck my mind too? Is that what you want, Kronos?" 

Kronos grinned his most jovial and predatory grin, reaching up to take the other man's chin firmly in his hand. 

"Don't try to act like an idiot, Methos, it's the one part you can't convincingly play. This is about what you want, of course, about your brilliance... and your dark side." Methos was forced to stare directly into Kronos' compelling, manic eyes. He was fascinated, intrigued by the simple conviction and depraved glee he saw. Abruptly he realized his danger and began to struggle, only to find that it was too late and he couldn't drag his eyes away. He wondered exactly when he had become so susceptible. 

"I can make you do whatever I want, Methos," Kronos murmured, beginning a leisurely sliding motion along Methos' cock which made him gasp, "you know it as well as I. I can make you want... I can make you beg... I can make you come. If you fight me, I'll stab you and you'll come back to life with my cock buried in your body. Would you like that? Shall I do that for you?" 

Methos shuddered convulsively, still unable to look away from the other man's penetrating gaze. 

"You are mine, Methos," Kronos said softly. "You wanted to be certain, and now you are. Don't ever doubt it again." 

Suddenly Kronos pulled away from him, and Methos felt both frustration and relief as the other man let go, the uneasy combination momentarily making him nauseous. Kronos turned and walked over to where Methos' sword had landed. 

Methos' stomach muscles cramped in panic as he envisioned Kronos fucking his dead and pliant body; panic which transformed to wary disbelief as Kronos offered him the sword hilt-first. Reflexively, his numb fingers accepted it. Kronos laughed heartily and slapped him solidly on the back, and Methos had to catch himself from stumbling. Kronos only laughed harder. 

"Very well, my brother," he said happily, "hasn't there been enough of this palaver? Soon we ride, and something tells me you aren't ready, eh?" He poked Methos' bare chest, raising his eyebrows with a jolly, knowing expression. "Now go and use your precious whore, and think of me." 

Methos backed slowly away, churning with confusion. He stopped and stood for a long moment, assessing the other man, but Kronos simply turned away with a grin and went back to fastening hides, humming a little under his breath. Methos took one step forward, then another. On his third step he faltered. His whole body was shaking. Abruptly he turned away, and walked with a heavy, measured tread back to his tent. 

Cassandra watched him as he came in and sat on his pallet, her eyes huge and frightened. "Is he dead?" she asked in a small voice. 

Methos covered his face with his grimy hands, rubbing hard until his eyes burned. 

"No," he replied, his voice muffled, "but I'll probably wish I was before long." 

She didn't ask him for an explanation. 

* * *

Methos didn't quite wish he were dead, but he did feel like he had been irrevocably split, and not only because of Kronos' unnecessarily large appendage, either. He lived two lives, a dual existence of night and day where the two different people that he was had nothing to do with each other=2E 

Most of the time life was normal; he raided, he hunted, he killed. Only now, this life which had previously been so thrilling had lost its luster; his actions were the same as ever, yet somehow the heady rush of exaltation was gone. 

Now it seemed that exaltation was exclusively in the domain of his other self, his other life, power games aplenty and an endless, burning rush as Kronos methodically, brutally, inexorably made him a slave. 

In public Kronos treated him just the same as always-like a brother, an equal: someone to mastermind and sculpt the chaos of the Horsemen into a coherent framework of terror. Kronos simply smiled and laughed and enthusiastically carried out Methos' carefully planned directions, absolutely the happiest and most serenely evil man Methos had ever known. 

This was the same man who, when he felt like it, mastered every aspect of Methos' body and mind. Kronos was careful to draw a line between his public and private revels; Silas and Caspian had no place in it, and Kronos had promised either of them death if they intruded. 

Caspian had laughed aloud, encouraging Methos to stop by his tent later. Before Methos could even react, Kronos was on his feet and across the fire, a blade pressed an inch into Caspian's throat. "This is for Methos and me only, Caspian. Your jealousy is unbecoming." 

Caspian jerked away, mumbling about certain people's sensitivity. Kronos casually walked back toward his place, pausing next to Methos and placing a firm and brotherly hand on his shoulder. "Methos and I are equals, Caspian. You have no place our games. You'll be told when to stay away; and I swear both Methos and I will find a way to enjoy your quickening if you don't." Methos smiled up at Kronos, glared across at Caspian, and felt sick to his stomach at his own pride in being the priveleged sacrifice on this perverse altar. 

Although at first every incident began with some level of defiance from Methos, he soon became docile, if not resigned. Though the start of every event was different, the end result was always the same. Methos would beg, plead, crawl, follow every direction the other man gave him no matter how obscene; and then, whenever and however Kronos told him to, Methos would come. 

He often thought that he would have gone mad long ago if it hadn't been for Cassandra. Kronos used her various orifices as inert receptacles for Methos, placing her wherever he wanted to in their little dramas, but Kronos never touched her himself. Consequently, she was always there after Kronos whistled off into the night; she bathed him, dressed his residual wounds, and more than once mingled her tears with his as he cried himself to sleep on her breast. He wondered at times why Kronos was content to have her only on the sidelines of the entertainment, why he would have more solicitude toward a captured slave than toward one who was supposed to be his brother; but he thought it would be best if he didn't question the other man's motivation for leaving her alone. 

At night he slept with her wrapped in his arms, and although he knew it was probably a bad idea he found himself beginning to care for her. There was strength behind her initially fragile femininity, and he thought she would probably grow into quite a powerful Immortal, if she managed to survive. 

The irony of his dependence on her didn't escape him. They never spoke about the initial phase of their lives together, in fact they never spoke about any of it. He knew she cared deeply for him, it was there in her every touch, her every look. He had begun by using her feelings for him as bait for a trap, only to find that he was the one who was shackled by his increasing tenderness. 

Now he held her tightly, standing with her in this solitary moment of comfort before Kronos' arrival. Her head lay trustingly on his shoulder, and he marvelled at how much solace there could be in this time of grace; they were, after all, two slaves, and she had just prepared him for a very demanding master, a man whose presence he craved and dreaded simultaneously. 

As if Methos' thought had summoned him, he suddenly felt the approaching Immortal rush. Moments later, Kronos entered the tent. Methos and Cassandra immediately drew away from each other, but not before they both saw amusement flare in the light eyes. 

"Oh, I beg your pardon," Kronos said mockingly, "I hope I'm not intruding=2E" He chuckled, leaning against the main post support of the tent. He crossed his arms, eyeing them both speculatively. "Come here and take my clothes off," he demanded. Methos started towards him, but abruptly Kronos stopped him dead with an angry look. "Not you," he snapped, "I was talking to her." 

Methos saw a startled, puzzled look briefly surface on Cassandra's face as she obediently stepped to Kronos and began to remove his heavy armor. Kronos rarely spoke to her at all: he'd simply tell Methos which hole to use and wait bemusedly for Methos to enter her before the violence began. Methos wondered what Kronos could be up to now. 

In a few minutes she had finished, and Kronos was naked. He straightened up from his slouch, and before Methos had any idea of what was coming Kronos had knocked Cassandra to the floor with one vicious backhanded blow. She cried out, and Methos found himself abruptly tense with rage, although he didn't move a muscle. 

Kronos reached down and hauled Cassandra up by the hair, causing her to squeal. He trapped her body against his own, laughing at her ineffectual struggles. He grabbed her hair to hold her, kissed her harshly, his free hand roaming her body, squeezing bruises in its wake. 

"Well, brother," he said, "what do you think of this? Are you ready to hold her down for me?" 

Methos was numb again, lost in confusion and rage as he tried desperately to figure out why Kronos would take this particular step now. Kronos didn't give him time to think; abruptly he leaned against the post again and forced Cassandra to her knees before him. He was smiling gently and staring almost dreamily into Methos' eyes as he pulled her head onto his erect shaft and began brutally fucking her mouth. Methos heard Cassandra sobbing and gagging, and his rage increased. He took a step towards them and then froze, still gazing into the other man's eyes. 

He realized with a shock that his rage was absolutely no detriment to his lust; his cock was fully, achingly erect. He tried to think of his feelings for her, but all he could think of was how Kronos looked as he shoved into Cassandra's unwilling mouth, his brows drawn together in pleasure and his skin flushed and starting to sweat. 

Methos was dumb with shock. He felt immobilized with the combination of fury and arousal, able to obey the dictates of neither. As he watched Kronos sighed and arched against the post, and Methos felt desire burn through him in a ruthless wave. He could see Kronos trembling, almost imperceptibly, a tremor which increased to shuddering spasms as Kronos improved his grip on Cassandra's head and began to pull her even harder and faster onto himself. Faintly Methos heard Cassandra's whimpers of fear and pain, shocked to realize that they seemed somehow distant and unimportant, certainly not as imperative as the fact that Kronos was making those earthy grunting noises he always made before he came. 

Suddenly his paralysis was broken. Before he knew what he was doing Methos had sprung at them, using all his strength to pull Cassandra away. He was on his knees between them, holding them apart at arm's length, and all three of them were gasping heavily. Methos was tormented with confusion, not understanding which of them he was jealous of. Then he was pulled up to his feet in Kronos' powerful grip, and the other man's flushed face filled his vision. 

"So then, my brother," Kronos panted, "shall I bring her here for you? Are you ready now?" 

Methos cringed with shame. "I can't, Kronos," he said softly. 

Kronos only smiled serenely into his eyes. "Why not? Because you love her?" he asked derisively. "That doesn't matter!" 

Methos wondered for a moment if he had heard the other man correctly. "What do you mean, it doesn't matter?" 

Kronos shook his head at him chidingly. "It doesn't matter who you love, Methos. The ones you love aren't immune to your destructive force, any more than anyone else is. Your love won't keep them safe from being your victims, in fact it makes them better targets. Don't you understand yet? You are a ruthless, murdering bastard, Methos. No- one, absolutely no-one, can crawl into your heart and survive there. You might as well try to snuggle up to death, because death is what you are." 

Methos felt a distant, swimming sensation of being untethered from himself. There was a momentary burst of terrified confusion as he tried to remember exactly who he was, and then the other man claimed his attention again. Kronos had scooped a knife from his pile of things and was pursuing him, backing him slowly across the floor. 

"I know you feel this, Methos," he continued menacingly, "you've tasted the absolute freedom of absolute power; you know what it is to claim that which you desire, to simply put out your hand and take it." 

Kronos reached out and took Methos' erection in a firm grip. 

"Feel that desire, brother," he continued seductively, "be the scourge of humanity that you were always meant to be. Know what you are, Methos, and let yourself feel the ecstasy of being a bringer of despair." 

Kronos' voice went on, whispering to him, murmuring his hypnotic tale of devastation. Methos couldn't retreat any further; his back was pressed against the soft side of the tent. 

For a moment he closed his eyes and shuddered in torment. He was a slave, he was a killer; he was desperately aroused, he was ferociously angry. 

Methos surrendered to the emotions which overwhelmed him, and suddenly his arousal and fury combined in a subsuming torrent. The emotions birthed a flood of memory, and he stood transfixed at the power of his own revelation. He remembered now, who and what he was. He understood exactly where everything had gone wrong even as he despised himself for his own weakness. There was a feeling in his head like lightning about to strike as he became free from uncertainty, a clear path charted before him. 

He breathed deeply and his eyes flew open. Kronos abruptly backed away from him, his confident grin faltering momentarily. 

"Knife," Methos snapped, extending his hand. Kronos' smile was renewed as he slapped the knife hilt-first into Methos' outstretched palm. 

Together they turned towards Cassandra where she still knelt on the floor, wide-eyed with horror. 

"Methos, no!" she cried, "don't let him do this to you! Please-Methos; I love you!" 

"Then you're a fool!" Methos hissed, and took a step towards her. 

Methos glanced sideways and met Kronos' eyes. In unspoken agreement they flanked her on both sides and began to advance. 

With a sudden spring Methos darted in and got his arm around her waist, dragging her upright. Immediately she started to struggle furiously, flailing and clawing at him until she felt the knife at her throat. The threat of the blade made her freeze, an unyielding statue in his arms. Methos couldn't stop smiling. 

Now Kronos was in front of her, and Methos lifted Cassandra smoothly off the ground, leaning back against the support post, offering her rigid body to his brother. 

Kronos stepped forward to accept, his hands moving down as he tried to pry Cassandra's resisting legs open. Kronos glanced at Methos, who immediately pressed the blade harder against her throat, puncturing the rosy skin=2E Cassandra yelped and twitched, but her thighs parted at once. Kronos pressed himself against her, and Methos seemed to feel the other man's heat even through the body which separated them. 

Methos was staring fixedly into Kronos' eyes as the other man slid into Cassandra's body with a shiver of pleasure. Methos was rigid against her buttocks. 

"Wait," he insisted. He clamped the knife between his teeth and used his free hand to direct his burning erection into Cassandra's other passage. She had never been doubly penetrated before and he had to shove to force himself inside her. Cassandra shrieked in his arms, writhing in an attempt to get free. Methos only pushed harder. 

Suddenly Kronos was helping him, grabbing Cassandra's ass and pulling her open, shoving her hips downward until Methos was buried completely in her painfully tight body. Methos could feel the other man's cock throbbing against his own through the thin membrane that separated them, and he had to lean against the post for support under the influence of the exquisite pressure. 

Cassandra was still screaming, piercing shrieks which cut off abruptly as Kronos covered her mouth and Methos replaced the blade against her throat. The ensuing quiet was filled with Cassandra's harsh, tortured breathing and the pounding rush of heartbeats. 

Firming his grip around her waist Methos lifted Cassandra a little higher, sliding her up on the two shafts which pierced her. In response Kronos gripped her thighs intently, using them to lever her back down onto both of them. Slowly they established a shared rhythm, thrusting forcefully against each other within the confines of her body, their gazes still locked together. 

Methos felt echoes of every shock of Kronos' pleasure. He watched, fascinated, as the other man's eyes dilated and lost their sharpness of focus, as a droplet of sweat found its way down his stubbled cheek, as his breath came faster. He stared into Kronos' eyes until he seemed to slip the boundaries of himself, sharing everything in one erotic moment of awareness=2E 

Methos soon found himself caught in a struggle to see if he could outlast Kronos. His cock was being squeezed almost unbearably, and each liquid slide of ecstasy pushed him closer to release. He clenched his teeth and tried to force himself back from the edge, but it was terribly difficult when Cassandra was crying in pain and Kronos was biting his lower lip in an extremity of pleasure. Methos tried desperately to move against the other man's shaft, trying to increase the amount of stimulation Kronos would have to withstand. Suddenly Kronos tossed his head and groaned, a sound which tore through Methos, echoing in his own body and almost making him lose control. 

"Ah, my brother," Kronos gasped, "you're going to make me come if you keep that up." 

Methos thrust harder, and spoke over Cassandra's escalating moans of pain=2E "You like this?" he panted, "let's have it then, Kronos. Let me feel you come." 

Suddenly he was being crushed brutally against the post as Kronos leaned forward, increasing the pressure against his shaft with desperate, bludgeoning thrusts. He felt the other man's muscles lock, and every nerve in his cock felt Kronos' initial pulses heralding release. 

As his body arched in the last possible moment before orgasm, Methos raised his arm and drove the blade of the knife deep into Cassandra's beating heart. Kronos' eyes widened and he gasped in shock, and there was an endless frozen moment of tableau. The only thing Methos could feel in that moment was the excited throbbing, over and over, of Kronos' cock against his own. 

Then Kronos leaned toward him over Cassandra's dying shoulder, and Methos felt a profound shock as his mouth was taken in a passionate and breathless kiss. For the first time he felt the slick and electric probe of the other man's tongue; Kronos was feeding on his open mouth, frantic with need. Then they were coming together, both of them grinding and moaning into each other's mouths as Cassandra choked out the last of her life suspended between their two heaving bodies. Her heartbeats slowed, lessening as the waves of pleasure that surged over them diminished. 

As the last throbs died away, Methos pulled away from Kronos' mouth and released his hold on Cassandra's body, which flopped solidly to the floor with a grisly whapping noise. They faced each other across her lifeless form, still heaving for breath. Methos saw with a powerfully erotic aftershock that both he and Kronos were dark with shed blood. 

Methos stepped over Cassandra's body and took Kronos in his arms. Their sticky bodies met and meshed, sweat-diluted blood smearing across both of them. He leaned the other man back, bending over his exposed throat. Kronos didn't resist him, but his hands found Methos' shoulders and squeezed. Slowly Methos placed biting kisses on Kronos' chest, moving up his throat and finally to his mouth, relishing the other man's shiver at the coppery taste of blood. 

Methos poured years of frustrated desire for Kronos into the kiss, plundering him and demanding a response. Kronos shivered and pulled Methos closer, offering his mouth with abandon, dissolving under the passionate assault. 

Methos reflected that the other man now had what he'd said he wanted- Methos knew exactly who and what he was. He had a brief moment of regret, a brief desire that it didn't have to be this way, but his resolution held firm; his choices, his path was clear before him. He strengthened his resolve to begin and released the other man's mouth. 

Kronos was panting in his arms, looking at Methos with eyes that were feverish with arousal. When Methos was sure he had Kronos' undivided attention he took the other man's hair in an uncompromising grip, holding him immobile as he brought the knife up and buried the blade hilt-deep into Kronos' heart. 

Kronos' eyes widened in shock, he sucked in air in a desperate gasp as his hands tightened frantically on Methos' shoulders. Methos didn't pull away, but slowly lowered Kronos' dying body onto the floor. 

"Listen to me, Kronos," he breathed, holding the other man's head and forcing Kronos' dimming eyes to focus on his own, "you are never, not ever, going to touch me again. You were right, my brother; I am a murdering bastard. What I am no longer, is your slave. That part of my life is over, Kronos. Now, nod if you understand me!" 

Amazingly, Kronos was bringing his hands to Methos' throat, trying even as he died to threaten and assert control. Methos grabbed the other man's arms in his own and bent close to his face. 

"You know, Kronos," he hissed, "I can make you just as much a slave as you made me. How would you like to spend the next few years begging me to make you come with my cock buried in your ass? Would you like that?" 

Kronos was fading away, growing weaker in every moment. Methos grabbed his face and forced the other man to look into his eyes. 

"Kronos, if you die without giving me what I want, you'll never come back=2E I'll take your head while you're down. Now, do we have an understanding?" 

Kronos nodded faintly, and Methos smiled. Abruptly he leaned forward and covered Kronos' mouth with his own, tasting blood on his lips in a lingering and almost tender kiss as he stole the other man's final breath. 

He sat quietly for a while; thinking, evaluating, one hand casually playing with a lock of Kronos' hair. Finally he pulled himself upright and stretched, moving over to the vessel of water near his trunk. He poured some into a bowl, using Cassandra's cloth to sponge himself free of blood, and then moved to his clothes. He dressed quickly. 

As he finished Cassandra began to stir, rubbing her chest and coughing. He went to a pile near his table and found her shift, throwing it at her as she sat up. She looked down at herself, puzzled, and then at Kronos' corpse before turning to him with flat hatred. 

"Why did you do that to me?" she hissed venomously. 

Methos looked at her coldly. "You were never a part of this," he said, "this was about me, and about him." He gestured to Kronos' body. 

He could see her fury, her sense of betrayal. "You loved me!" she shouted=2E 

He smiled. "I never loved you." 

Now she was hurt, tears standing in her large eyes. "You thought you did," she said uncertainly. 

Methos took his bloody knife and began to wipe it clean, threatening and dismissing her at the same time. "Get away from here, and don't ever let me catch you again." 

Struggling into her shift, Cassandra backed away from him and out of the tent. He heard her running steps pounding away on the sand, finally left alone with the quiet of his satisfied thoughts and Kronos' dead body. 

He went to his trunk and got out the stones and oil he used to sharpen his blades, then settled himself on his pallet and began to work. He wondered idly which way it would go when Kronos woke up. 

He didn't have to wonder long. Kronos sat up with one convulsive wrench, covering his heart with one hand while he looked wildly around. He saw Methos and sprang to his feet, snarling in anger. Methos paused in the act of wiping his knife. 

"Don't do it, Kronos," he warned, "don't think I can't make you hurt badly enough to wish you'd never tried it." 

Kronos was staring furiously at him, still swaying a little on his feet. "This isn't over, Methos," he said, his voice hoarse. "You might think it is, but you're wrong. I'll decide when to stop, not you." 

Methos sighed. "You leave me no choice then," he said, coming to his feet, "I'm leaving, Kronos. I suggest you don't try to find me for a while, because I don't know what I'd do to you if you tried to fuck up my life again." 

Kronos was incredulous. "You're not leaving, Methos," he insisted, "I'll eat your murdering cock before I'll let you run away from me." Suddenly Kronos leaped to the side and reached into his pile, coming up with his shortsword. Slowly he began to advance on the other man, smiling and passing the blade from hand to hand, his movements fully graceful now. 

Methos was suddenly very tired. "Stay away from me, Kronos," he warned quietly. Kronos only grinned and came on, a bloody spectre with mad, dancing eyes. 

With one practiced, lightning-quick wrist motion Methos hurled his knife into Kronos' chest again. Kronos uttered a puzzled oof of surprise, looking down at the handle emerging from his chest as if it had suddenly grown there. He was still studying the handle intently as he slipped to his knees. Methos stood and walked toward him. 

"This isn't over..." Kronos whispered, slowly collapsing, "you'll see me again, Methos, don't ever doubt it." 

Methos stood over him for a moment, and then reached down to grasp the handle of the knife. 

"Let's just both hope that I don't," he said brusquely. Abruptly he turned the knife inside the wound, causing freshets of blood to pulse from the other man's chest. Kronos gasped in agony and turned away from him, and Methos retrieved his knife and stood. Momentarily he wondered what would be coming next, but by that time Kronos was dead. 

Methos sighed in relief. Quickly he fetched his horse and methodically began to load him, pondering on where to go and what to do. He took only his most essential belongings and an allotment of provisions. Soon he was mounted, turning his horse's head away from the lowering sun, choosing the opposite direction from the one Cassandra had taken. 

He'd had to leave. He could face off against Kronos for a day, a week, perhaps even a month, but Kronos' drive for vengeance was highly advanced, and Methos didn't want to test it against his own drive for survival. 

Staying meant fighting Kronos, and Methos knew that if he lost Kronos wouldn't kill him. Kronos couldn't have any fun with him if he were dead, and he couldn't trust himself to fight off enslavement. There were so many choices in life, so many responsibilities, it was so much easier when all you had to do was worry about keeping your ass lubricated and letting the rest take care of itself. 

When he finally went to ground that night he was far, far away. He was enjoying the romance of sleeping under the open stars more than he would have believed possible, and he knew now that he had made the right decision=2E It felt good to be alone, amazingly good; as he fell into sleep he found himself considering that alone was simply how he was meant to be. 

The light of his dying fire played fitfully over his face, alternating patterns of light and darkness creating the illusion of a living man. 

* * *

Duncan opened his eyes, and the first thing that registered was that the ceiling was unfamiliar to him, and that the bed was strange. He lay puzzled for a moment, trying to prod memories out of his sluggish brain; but then he breathed deeply, and went cold. 

The smell brought it all back. Methos. This bed belonged to Methos. Last night... Oh my God. 

Duncan found himself wondering exactly how it had all happened. He could remember the confusion that had brought him to the bookstore, he remembered burning with righteous indignation at the other man's betrayal of their friendship, he remembered the argument. How in the world had he gotten from arguing to... to what they'd done? 

He turned to his left and saw Methos, sprawled sideways in an overstuffed armchair with a dusty tome propped open on his knee. A brown bottle beaded with icy droplets rested on the floor next to the chair, and as Duncan watched Methos found it unerringly with one questing hand, never taking his eyes from the page he studied. 

Duncan saw the other man hesitate in the act of raising the bottle to his lips, and then Methos' head turned toward him as if sensing his attention. Duncan's stomach fluttered with momentary panic under the other man's frank, assessing gaze. Then Methos smiled at him, and Duncan's panic receded. 

"Good morning, MacLeod," he said companionably, "did you sleep well?" 

Duncan didn't know what to say. This episode between them loomed in his consciousness, and internally he writhed under the scathing memory of the intimacy, the intensity. 

"Fine, thank you," he managed in a voice that sounded steady. 

He took refuge in pretending that everything was normal, that he often woke up in Methos' bed with his nerve endings still sizzling from passion. He rubbed his face to try to establish some equilibrium, but then he realized that he could smell Methos in the hollow of each hand, that his entire body was ringed and haloed with the aroma of sweat and masculine sex. 

His senses were overwhelmed, and Duncan was appalled to realize that he was becoming aroused. 

"So which is it, then?" Methos asked him suddenly, startling him, "which part are you having a problem with- the fact that you managed to successfully have sex with a man, or the fact that the man was me?" 

Duncan was surprised into an honest answer. "Both," he replied. He fought down an urge to cover his bare upper body, pulling the bedquilt securely around his lap. 

"I see," Methos said dryly. Duncan heard a soft rustling noise, and forced himself to look at Methos. His stomach fluttered again when he saw that the other man was on his feet, methodically removing his clothes. 

"Oh, hey... Methos," he stammered, feeling panic descend, "what are you-oh no." 

"Oh yes, MacLeod," Methos said matter-of-factly as he began to unbutton his jeans, "otherwise it'll probably be four hundred years before you get up the nerve to try it again, and I don't have that kind of patience." 

Duncan swallowed convulsively. "What are you trying to do, Methos? Change my orientation?" 

Methos laughed, a lighthearted and truly amused sound that seemed incongruous with Duncan's feelings of alarm. 

"Change?" Methos asked archly; "No, I like your orientation just the way it is. Actually, you should be very supportive of what I'm trying to do, MacLeod. I'm trying to increase the level of honesty between us." 

Methos was naked, and Duncan couldn't look away. The man could have been an erotic sculpture in marble, he was that white and that defined, the only touch of color the rosy blush of his erection. 

"Honesty..." Duncan croaked. Methos was pale, so pale, but Duncan knew that his pallor would give way to a ruddy flushed tone when he became aroused. He remembered... he remembered. 

Methos approached him and sat on the bed, and Duncan looked nervously into his own lap, feeling the proximity of the other man burning against his skin, much like sensing sunshine on his flesh when his eyes were closed. 

"Yes, MacLeod, honesty," Methos said softly. "You want me again, don't you?" 

Duncan cleared his throat and forced a rational tone. "Well, no. I don't. But its nothing—" 

"Liar," Methos interjected amicably. 

One finger under his chin pulled his head up, and Duncan was lost in the sensual promise flickering in the depths of the other man's eyes. 

"Tell me, MacLeod," Methos inquired, "what is it that scares you the most? The thought of getting fucked, or the thought that you might enjoy it?" 

Duncan was speechless. Suddenly his spine felt as if it had been plunged in ice, all zero at the bone. He tried to pull himself away from Methos, but the other man calmly restrained him with a strength that was surprising. 

"Alright then," Duncan heard him say in a casual, conversational tone, "then that's what we'll do." 

Now approaching a state of terror, Duncan tried desperately to get away. He couldn't understand quite what happened next, but suddenly he was lying flat on his back with both arms pinned above his head in a steel grip. 

Methos was pressed full-length along his body, and Duncan was less concerned with the fact that he was being held down than that he couldn't hide his aroused state any longer. Methos didn't seem surprised. 

"Don't freak out on me, MacLeod," he said warningly. "I don't want to hurt you, I just want you to tell me the truth-tell me how much you want me." 

Duncan couldn't say a damn thing. He wanted to reason, to deny, blame-anything to change the focus of this conversation, but no matter what he thought of he simply couldn't push the words past his frozen voicebox. When he finally broke through the block in his throat, he was unsure of what was going to come out. 

"Why ask me, if you know already?" 

Well, he thought, could have been better, could have been worse. Methos favored him with a wry grin, and his fingers around Duncan's wrists squeezed playfully. 

"Because it turns me on to hear you say it, MacLeod," Methos said, lowering his head as he spoke, and Duncan's lips tingled with anticipation, "and I love it when you make me hot." 

Duncan braced himself for a ravenous kiss full of demands, shutting his eyes tightly. His breathing was quick and light as he tensed in preparation, only to find himself waiting, waiting.... Waiting. 

Duncan opened his eyes to find Methos about an inch away from him, a teasing smile on his face. The flutters in Duncan's stomach were back with reinforcements as Methos moved toward his lips with endless, glacial slowness. The first touch on his mouth was terrifyingly gentle. 

Methos was breaking through his myriad layers of resistance one by one. Somehow Methos knew about the need inside him, and was skillfully, insidiously pulling it to the surface, Duncan's efforts to keep it suppressed notwithstanding. 

The very gentleness and passion in the kiss were an undeniable insistence on his capitulation, beguiling his desire in spite of his fear. 

Duncan couldn't tell if the quilt which separated their naked bodies was a comfort or an irritant. When Methos finally released his mouth Duncan was breathless. 

"Dammit, Methos," he gasped, petulant, "you could seduce a thirty-year nun." 

Methos smiled. "Well, MacLeod, everyone's got to have a hobby." 

Abruptly Methos was rolling away, pulling the quilt from between them. Before he could pull it completely away Duncan had clamped onto it, holding it against his nakedness as he looked intently into the other man's eyes=2E 

"Methos," he insisted, "last night... I asked you a question, remember? I asked you... but you never answered me." 

"Right, MacLeod," Methos replied, yanking the quilt from Duncan's fingers and rolling on top of him, "I didn't." 

Duncan was ready to protest, warning flags waving a fusillade inside his head, but before he could martial his arguments he was swept away from everything in the world except for the feel of the man in his arms. 

For a long time they wrestled against each other, rolling over and over as their mouths and bodies moved together in ecstatic struggle. When the dust settled Duncan found himself sweating freely and panting, flat on his back under Methos and painfully aroused. 

Methos held each of his hands immobile at his sides, and Duncan tugged experimentally. Methos simply clamped down on him, which he had expected, but the surge of his own desire took him entirely by surprise. 

There was a sudden feeling of some overwhelming threat, some complex and sophisticated level of need that walked in boots and could possibly be deadly. 

He repressed a sudden urge to groan, not wanting Methos to have even the slightest idea of what he was going through. When the other man pulled back from him and gave him a measuring, speculative look, Duncan knew that it was too late. 

"Indeed?" Methos asked in a surprised tone, and Duncan felt himself blushing furiously. 

Methos commanded his mouth again with gentle thoroughness, and Duncan blissfully slipped into the haze of erotic unconcern that offered itself in the other man's actions. 

Duncan was being slowly drawn out of his consciousness, almost as if under the influence of some drug; his mind drifted off somewhere and all that was left was a craving, driven, physical animal who didn't understand anything except that he wanted more. 

Duncan sobbed in ecstasy as he thrust his aching shaft deep into Methos' throat, reveling. Methos ruthlessly prevented orgasm by the narrowest of margins; brought him to the edge again and again, but never let him release. Soon Duncan heard his own voice as if over a great distance, crying out in debased need as he pleaded for Methos to let him come. 

Methos rolled away from him and Duncan followed, but suddenly both his mind and the real world returned in a cold slap as he saw Methos pull the bottle of oil from under his pillow. Duncan was excruciatingly present, conscious of everything apparent and implied: conscious of too much. His body was still heaving and shaking from the deluge of stimulation, but his mind felt clear all the way down to millimeters. 

Methos regarded him with curiosity. "Good," he said warmly, moving back to Duncan's side, "welcome back." 

"You—" Duncan stopped to swallow, an effort to still his trembling voice; "I suppose you had that right there because you knew that all this would happen, didn't you Methos? Is everything so far according to plan? I'm following the script, aren't I?" 

Methos smiled benignly. "Turn the record over, MacLeod, that side's getting old. I told you before; it doesn't matter." 

Duncan shook his head in mute disagreement. 

Methos softly touched his face, warm fingers leaving tingling trails of awareness. "Let me show you what matters," he murmured seductively, pulling Duncan to him for a kiss. 

Duncan couldn't understand it. Four hundred years of life, four hundred years of fairly spicy sexual experience, and never, not once, had anybody made him feel like this. Was it Methos? Was it just time? Duncan didn't know. 

Methos had rolled him onto his back again, and Duncan once again found himself engulfed in that expert and wickedly teasing mouth. Everything in the world funneled down to the point of awareness where Methos was swallowing him; and when a strong, oiled hand caressed his testicles he felt it down to his toes. The scent of the oil drifted to him. Sandalwood. Nice. 

There was gentle pressure against him now, almost obscured by the wet heat that enveloped his cock. He felt himself entered, the sensation much clearer than he had expected, and then everything inside him went still while the stimulation to his shaft increased. When Duncan was on the edge of coming he was entered again, for the first time feeling a sensation of stretching. 

Duncan suddenly locked up, teetering between fear and desire. Immediately Methos was above him, fingers still in place and motionless. 

"All right now, it's okay," Methos soothed, "let me in, love-let me make you feel good." Methos kissed him deeply until the world started to go away again, and little by little he relaxed. 

Methos prepared him slowly, keeping him suspended on an exquisite wave of pleasure until his entire body sang with intense, throbbing joy. 

Duncan found himself with his thighs spread open on Methos' lap, sudden fear warring with an equally sudden urge to get it over with. Methos placed a pillow underneath him, and shifted forward, leaning over him. Duncan felt a touch at the opening to his body, and then pressure. 

There was a bright, flaring pain, and Duncan hissed in surprise. Immediately Methos was still, but Duncan felt more and more uncomfortable with each moment. He felt like an idiot for getting into this in the first place=2E 

Now the agonizing presence moved even further inside him, and suddenly Duncan was trying to push Methos away, his desire flown and his only thoughts those of escape. 

"Don't, Methos," he said through teeth clenched in pain, "this won't work=2E Let me up." 

Methos' hands were on his face, forcing him to look into the other man's aroused, dilated eyes. 

"Shh... okay, MacLeod," he whispered, his hands trailing a gentle path down to Duncan's wrists. 

Duncan felt Methos begin to pull away, but then his arms were brought above his head, and pinned. Duncan stared disbelievingly into Methos' eyes. 

"I'm not going to stop, MacLeod," Methos said quietly, "you're going to trust me, and that's that. Don't make this bad for yourself-just relax. I'm not going to do anything that you don't want." 

Duncan was horrified. He wanted to throw the other man off of him, at least expostulate, but fear had claimed him and taken both his strength and his words. In the end he just lay there inert, watching as if from outside himself as Methos' knees forced his thighs even wider. Then the lancing agony returned, and Duncan was back in his body and crying out in pain. 

Methos was motionless above him, buried deeply in his unwilling body. Duncan felt himself filled and stretched to the bursting point, still unable to believe that this was actually happening. He tensed his muscles for a struggle, but movement caused the pain inside him to flare higher. 

Slowly the pain died away, and Duncan realized that the man above and inside him was making a tremendous effort to give him time. "What are you waiting for, Methos?" he cried, "Go ahead-rape me and get it over with, for God's sake!" 

Methos pulled his head back, and Duncan saw with shock that silent tears were rolling down his cheeks. A subtle, shifting movement inside, and suddenly intense pleasure flooded through him, hardening his cock in seconds=2E Duncan's breath caught. 

Methos lowered onto his mouth. Duncan tasted the salt of his tears, and he became aware of something inside him like hunger, wanting and unfulfilled. Another shift, and the residual pain was a gracenote to the intense, swooning pleasure. Methos had obviously perfected his talents over the eons. Something was happening inside him, stripping him of his fear, leaving only need. He arched with want, feeling his legs open even wider of their own volition. 

It wasn't enough. He flexed his hips in an effort to have more, and Methos groaned into his mouth. Abruptly Methos pulled back above him, causing the pressure on his wrists to become intense. At the same time he froze, becoming completely still inside Duncan's body. All Duncan could feel was throbbing heat. 

Duncan stared at the man above him. He had never seen so much raw passion; Methos was tense with restraint, beaded with sweat, obviously sacrificing every muscle to pay the cost of control. 

"Tell me, Duncan," Methos moaned, "am I? Am I raping you? Tell me if I am, and I'll let you go right now." 

Duncan was caught, trapped between the vestiges of his outrage and fear and the craving which coursed through his blood with every beat of his heart. For a moment he wondered how he would feel if Methos didn't stop. Then he wondered how he would feel if he did, and he had his answer. 

"No, Methos," he whispered, "you aren't raping me." 

Methos squeezed Duncan's wrists and moved inside him. Duncan's head arched back helplessly as his desire leaped to a higher plateau. 

"Tell me then," Methos demanded softly, "tell me what I'm doing." 

Duncan hesitated, amazed at his ability to be embarrased under these circumstances, until Methos began to pull away from him, slowly leaving his burning body. 

"You're... fucking me, Methos," he gasped quickly, and groaned as Methos eased back into him, striking those bright sparks of pleasure again. 

"Am I doing something you don't want?" Methos asked, releasing Duncan's wrists. Duncan had to stop himself from grabbing the other man's hands and clamping them onto himself. 

"No..." he murmured, "you're not doing anything I don't want." At once his wrists were taken in a fierce grip while his body was teased with gentle thrusts. 

"Tell me, Highlander," Methos insisted, "tell me what you want." 

"I want... I want you," he whispered, surging against the other man in desperate need. 

Above him Methos frowned. "Not good enough." He began to pull away. Duncan felt the pleasure inside him subside into an unfulfilled ache. 

Duncan surrendered. "I want you to fuck me, Methos!" he cried frantically, "I want to feel you inside me, take me-oh please-Methos- fuck me!" 

Methos thrust into him hard for the first time, and Duncan cried out in ecstasy as that needy place in him was filled for a brief moment. 

"Do you want me to make you come, Duncan?" Methos panted, shivering. 

Duncan writhed against the other man's restraining hands. "Yes!" 

Another firm thrust, another ecstatic moment of too-brief fulfillment. 

"Do you want me to come inside you?" 

"Yes!" 

"All right then." Methos heaved inside him and Duncan moaned. "I want you to come when I do. Understand?" 

"Yes—Yes— _Yes_!" 

Then Methos was moving, thrusting, forcing Duncan's body to overflow with desire. Methos' smooth hard stomach rubbed firmly against his erection, easing the ache of need there. His arms were held in an uncompromising grip as his body was ravaged, penetrated, transfixed with delight. 

The urgency and intensity increased in measure, and Duncan felt his body absorb Methos' most brutal, ramming thrusts with an endless appetite. Methos was talking to him, telling him how phenomenal, how incomparable it was to be in him, how it felt to be buried inside him. 

Suddenly Methos was kissing him, biting his lower lip hard and licking the blood from the wound, and Duncan could barely understand his words as the other man cried out into his mouth, telling him to come, come now, over and over and over. 

One last slide of Methos' perspiring stomach over his cock and Duncan obeyed, pulses counterpointed almost painfully by the throbbing of the shaft inside him. Methos rocked over him, shuddering, thrusts becoming less urgent as the spasms of pleasure slowly died away. 

Then it was all over. Methos was cradling him, kissing him, gently rubbing sensation back into his tingling hands, stroking every part of his body lovingly and with incredible reverence. 

Duncan felt the same insidious siren call of Methos' comforting, but this time he was determined to resist. 

He lay unmoving under the other man's caresses, forcing himself not to respond. He felt hollow inside, a great, whistling emptiness desolated under a shadow of fear. Abruptly he rolled on top of Methos and pinned him, using all his strength to press the other man into the bed. 

Not caring that his tears were starting to flow, he leaned down to Methos' face, commanding his gaze. 

"You're going to hurt me, aren't you Methos?" he said, his voice shaking, "sooner or later you're going to make me hate myself for ever caring about you- sooner or later you're going to make me wish I were dead. Isn't that right?" 

Methos was looking at him with such sorrow, such pity. "I don't want to," he said softly, his brows drawn together. 

Duncan felt anger rise up in him, the helpless anger of the impotent, and his hands squeezed tightly on Methos' arms. "Why, dammit? Methos," his voice broke and then he was crying, powerless to stop, "why can't you just love me?" 

Methos had closed his eyes, and Duncan suddenly felt shut out, abandoned. Duncan let go of him and rolled away, sitting up on the bed and crying into his cupped hands. Methos didn't try to comfort him, which Duncan had expected, but simply lay there passively as Duncan moved through his sadness. 

When Duncan was quiet, his tears finished for the moment, Methos spoke; his voice was tight with some unknown emotion. "What makes you think my love for you would keep me from hurting you, MacLeod?" 

Methos sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was cold. "I've hurt people just like you before, people I've loved." Suddenly his eyes were open, and Duncan felt a cramp of fear as he looked into that ancient, alien gaze. "I've already hurt you. Look at what I just did." 

"What did you just do, Methos?" Duncan demanded, angry in the grip of his own uncertainty. "What did you do to me? Did you rape me? Did you teach me something I needed to know? Did you free me from my own fears? Which was it? Which one are you going to claim it is?" 

The face beneath his was unreadable. "Come back to me after a thousand years and tell me the answer." 

Duncan studied him, trying to see through all the meticulously constructed barriers to what was inside, knowing that was impossible. 

"Who are you, Methos? I feel like I deserve to know. Are you still death on horseback? Are you even human anymore? Where are the dividing lines between light and dark here? Which side are you on?" 

Abruptly Methos was pulling away from him, and Duncan let him go. Methos sat up, regarding him calmly and steadily. 

"I'm on my own side," he said simply. "As I told you before, light and dark have different meanings for both of us. They are absolutes, extremes; and extremes should be avoided if you want to survive." 

"Then why do this with me, Methos? Why put me through this?" 

Methos turned from him, lying down on his side and hunched away. Duncan was determined to have an answer, and he reached for Methos, trying to pull him onto his back. When Duncan finally rolled him over Methos had his hands pressed to his face, and he was shaking. Duncan struggled with the other man's hands, and Methos resisted for a moment before he let Duncan pull them away. 

Methos' face was streaked with tears, his features twisted with pain. He looked at Duncan, a study in misery, and then he looked away. Duncan waited, wanting to give Methos time. 

"Just because I've made these choices in my life doesn't mean I don't feel," he murmured. "I stand outside humanity looking in, MacLeod, I stand alone in time, and time is cold." Suddenly Duncan could see both the alien and the man, each one helping the other to live, to grow stronger. "You are all so warm, you all burn with such fire and passion. I can stand outside for centuries, but sometimes I need... I need to come inside and get warm." 

Duncan felt a wave of compassion crest around his heart, and something inside him broke open, flooding over his anger and his fears. He gathered Methos gently into his arms, lying back with him and pressing their bodies together. He tried to kiss the pain away, kissing the furrows in the other man's brow, tasting his tears and finding them sweet. 

Methos relaxed against him, and Duncan was overpowered with a need to protect, to keep him safe, to give him peace. He lowered himself to Methos' mouth, stroking slowly over his face as he tried to communicate without words that Methos could trust him, that he loved him, that he would keep him warm. The kiss lasted a long time, and when Duncan finally pulled back Methos was asleep in his arms. 

Duncan held Methos quietly, a bulwark against the cold. 

* * *

Triste, Mairead   
Shades of Grey   
Rating: NC-17   
Characters: DM, M, Kronos, Cassandra   
Classification: Slash   
Comments: Extreme violence. Graphic nonconsensual hetero and homosexual adult content.   
Summary: Post CAH/Rev, first time Duncan/Methos, flashback Methos/Kronos/Cassandra, pretty twisted, dark stuff, but not utterly hopeless.   
Disclaimer: THIS IS NC-17 FOR GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT, RAPE AND VIOLENCE: IF YOU DON'T LIKE THE DARKSIDE, GO NOW!   
Additional disclaimer: This story contains scenes which depict violence against women. As a rabid, left-wing, bra-burning feminist, I want to make it perfectly clear that I do not at all condone real violence against real women in any form, ever, at all, period. There is a line between fantasy and reality, folks, and therefore I find it hot stuff to read about certain things that I would slaughter strangers for doing in real life.   
The characters in this story are not mine. I am only borrowing them, and, contrary to all appearances, I mean no harm. No money changed hands, although I did have to turn down a juicy offer from my husband, who tried to bribe me to stop writing this stuff.   
This material may not be copied or distributed without permission. Please do not link, publish or post this material without permission.   
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	2. Eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post CAH/Rev, first time Duncan/Methos, flashback Methos/Kronos/Cassandra, pretty twisted, dark stuff, but not utterly hopeless.

  
Shades of Grey II

**Eclipse  
by Mairead Triste**

  
_The ability to transcend monstrous behavior does not come with age and experience, unless one transcends humanity and becomes a saint. Such individuals are few and far between. If one wants to go on living, however, one must learn to understand one's capacity for monstrous behavior. Sometimes we are demons. Sometimes we are angels. We each embody the best and worst of every human possibility.  
—Private journal of Methos Maelus, 390 AD (translated from the Latin.)_

Methos closed the file and hunched his shoulders forward, running his tongue over his teeth in thoughtful reflection. His own words haunted him, reminded him again how easy it was to forget the lessons of the past. 

He shook off his ruminations and stood, grimacing pleasantly as he stretched and his spine cracked. Underneath his thoughts there stirred a sudden urge to be gone, to pack only a few necessary items and flee his suddenly too-small Paris apartment. 

It was a purposeless and unconsidered urge, but it tempted him nonetheless, worrying his mind with a simple, repeated imperative: 

Get out. 

Go find him. 

Methos sighed, idly shuffling the papers that littered his desk. His eyes were unaware of what passed before them as they scanned an internal vision that represented the latest grotesquerie in a life that had witnessed far too many. 

Richie had died with a look of shocked horror on his face. His disembodied head had rolled only a few feet before coming to rest against the base of a concrete pillar, leaning nearly sideways to look at the three of them with the characteristic surprise of the suddenly dead-mouth open, tidy cave of shadows spewing darkness, neat white teeth spattered red. The image of those well-tended, bloody teeth seemed somehow to be the crucial expression of the event for Methos, a quick silent shrieking picture that could remind him at any moment that Richie was dead, and that MacLeod had lost his mind. Again. 

"It's not my problem," he murmured aloud. He started at the sound of his own voice, and looked around the room quickly. 

No, it wasn't his problem, but suddenly Methos felt a familiar sense of sinking desperation as he realized that he was going to get involved again, regardless of whose problem it was. 

The real dismay, however, lay in how long it had taken him to notice that he was an utter fool. He'd told Joe two months ago when Mac disappeared that whether the Highlander's demons were real or imagined, whether he was seeking death or a new life, their part in it was done. Finished. 

Fool. 

Joe had listened to him, of course. Joe needed to listen to _somebody_ , because his own resources had been burnt out of him in one great swooping flash of a child's quickening. Those teeth— they had sunk themselves deeply into Joe's mind as well, that much had been evident. 

Methos had been very clear in his conviction that his own part in it was done; had _known_ , known that this time, MacLeod _had_ to make his own choices. That surety had carried him through the past two months, kept him calm as he went through the customary motions of his own grieving process; now so familiar that, paradoxically, it soothed him with the mellow touch of intimate depression. 

And now he labored under the much less comfortable, cringing knowledge of folly. The surety was false— a useful lie, built on the assumptions of reason. 

As Methos rummaged through his closet for his duffel bag, he wondered vaguely what good it was to have such a finely developed voice of reason, when it always seemed to come down to what he wanted, what he needed, in the end. 

* * *

He'd done it before. Once before, in a carefully controlled haze born of too much rage and too little sleep, he'd surrendered to what he wanted from Duncan MacLeod. For a moment. And, of course, the Highlander had been his, had given body and soul after a short struggle that had only made claiming him all the sweeter. For a moment. 

A passionate connection, undeniably so; but also a fleeting one. Methos woke cold in the lingering grip of a dream, a confusing, kaleidoscopic, shifting carnival nightmare of suffocation and contradictory exposure. When Mac tried to soothe him, to gentle him with tender offers of solace, Methos turned away— a little space was all he needed; just a little time and space to fend off his own demons, to wait for his skin to stop crawling. He was still waiting when sleep reclaimed him. 

Time and space is what he got, sure enough, and it wasn't a huge stretch of his faculties to assign blame for the vast overabundance of time and space he found himself burdened with shortly thereafter. Methos woke up alone, remembered triumph transformed in an instant to grey, ashy emptiness, somehow colder than he'd ever been. 

MacLeod hadn't been ready— that much was obvious from circumstance. His own mind was very certain of itself in assuring him that Mac would never be so. 

In the end, it had proven to be abysmally easy to match distance for distance, reserve with reserve. He clung to that frigid center of himself while he watched events march sedately past, while he absorbed Mac's flaunted skirt-chasing— Amanda, faceless others— without a twinge, without a word. 

In his few, less-frozen moments, he achieved a great deal of torpid satisfaction from his memories— they were powerless to hurt him, after all— and from the fact that the word "rape" had not resurfaced between them. Not a whisper. 

Methos' jaw ached with pressure as his teeth ground together hard— too hard; rage had crept up on him silently, rage that couldn't be countenanced. Acknowledging the anger meant acknowledging something darker, something that spoke in teasing, whispered voices about who and what he was. He forced himself ruthlessly into relaxation, told the voices to go to hell, and set about his hasty packing with a calm focus that soothed him with proof of his own dispassionate equanimity. 

The words of his journal, written by him nearly two thousand years ago, recurred to him as he packed. It had been a shock to realize that apparently he was finished doling out a pointless retribution of inept neglect to Duncan MacLeod— he had something to say, now. The words running through his mind like a mantra distracted him from other things, obscured the final mutation as reticence transformed into certainty, and Methos surrendered one more time to the relief of reaching out for what he wanted. 

* * *

"I thought you were made of stronger stuff, Highlander," Methos said with disapproval, casual in his study of the man who sat limply in the chair where Methos had placed him. 

No response. 

Duncan had been silent and filthy when Methos found him, a vacant husk that bore only the faintest resemblance to the man he used to be. Methos had no idea what was wrong, aside from the fact that the Highlander evidently hadn't yet found the resources to cope with either Richie's death, or his 'demons'. He'd shown no recognition, no awareness; no comprehension at all in the two days since Methos found him slumped and mute in a foul alley. He followed docilely enough when Methos pulled him to his feet and led him to the rental car, however; and that had to count for something. 

Duncan's slack, obedient passivity was somehow both pitiful and repulsive, but Methos betrayed neither aversion nor compassion. He cared for the physical shell with the detached, rough professionalism of a healer in wartime, a ridiculously nostalgic recollection that left his nostrils stinging with a phantom memory of carbolic acid. 

"It won't go away, you know," he said aloud, less in hopes that Duncan might hear him than to dispel the sense that he was alone in the room with a piece of barely animated meat. "Simply lapsing into catatonia isn't going to make any of this better, or make it go away." 

No response. 

Methos sighed. He got to his feet and stripped quickly, then maneuvered Duncan into the bathroom. He propped his less-than-scintillating companion on the closed seat of the toilet while he turned on the water, then moved to slip the hotel-provided robe off of Mac's slumped shoulders. He was pleased to see that the dry scales of dehydration death had at last vanished entirely. He guided Duncan into the shower stall, and ministered to the other man with newly established brusque efficiency, concentrating on cleanliness to help him resist the siren song of warmth and steam and firm, slippery flesh. 

Under other circumstances, this could have been a sweet little reunion for them, a piquant education in forgiveness and need— but not now, not with MacLeod's head still full of demons and darkness, a vacancy into which any unknown might slip. 

When Duncan was clean and dry Methos nudged him into the bed and made him drink two glasses of water. MacLeod was both too thin and too pale, but he looked now like a weakened, vacuous version of his former self rather than a dead man. Methos brushed back the long strands of wet hair that obscured blank, expressionless eyes, his touch perhaps rougher than it should have been, his stomach tightened with frustration. He had a message to deliver, dammit— that was supposed to be the extent of his redemption, not this bloody nursemaiding for an empty husk. 

He leaned close to the other man's face, searching intently. "Come back, MacLeod," he said insistently, "you can't hide from this forever." 

No response. 

No recognition at all— just unseeing brown eyes, half-lidded with pupils dilated to wide blackness. Methos leaned closer, leaned forward to the point that their noses almost touched, determined that two days had been long enough— it was time to break through. 

"Maybe I should just let you stay how you are," he whispered softly as he reached out with one finger to trace across the full growth of stubble along Mac's jaw, "you're much more tractable this way." 

Duncan blinked. 

Methos suppressed a smile. In the split second before the dark eyes flipped closed, he'd seen a momentary flicker of... something, gone again as soon as they opened. 

"It's okay if you don't want to talk, Highlander," he continued, moving to recline on his elbow next to the gently-breathing body, "I'm sure I can think of something to keep us occupied." 

He rested his hand on the smooth skin at the other man's waist; eyes fixed on the slack face beneath him as he stroked slowly up the cool torso to cup finally underneath the chin. "What do you think of necrophilia, MacLeod?" he asked casually, shifting a little closer, "isn't it convenient— you won't have to assume any of the blame for this." 

Methos lowered to cover cold lips. Duncan's breathing caught briefly, then returned to measured respiration. Methos tasted and lingered, brushing his fingers lightly across stubble. He thought there might be the faintest tremor, but it soon faded, if it had even been there at all. Anger crested, pitched higher by arousal, both flashing hot and uncontrollable through his body. He seized on them— he would need both; he could _use_ the anger, if he didn't pay too much attention from whence it came, and the desire would become its own end, in time. He betrayed nothing. 

"You're cold, Duncan," he murmured, easing the other man onto his side, "but I think I can warm you up..." 

Mac's heart beat under his palm; light, rapid pulses that seemed to quicken even further as he touched and nuzzled, as he slid his tongue in a delicate arc behind the curved shell of an ear. 

His hand drifted downwards, pressing their bodies together and exploring, serving both purposes admirably. He came to rest between Duncan's legs, and gripped the Highlander's half-erect cock at the same time that he pressed his own eager flesh into the cool, available crevice. The slow curl of anticipatory pleasure that tingled through him didn't keep his attention from the pulse and twitch under his fingers. He could smile now, with Duncan turned away. 

"Well, Lazarus," he drawled lazily, "I see you haven't forgotten about me entirely." A thought occurred to him. "Give me a moment. I'll be right back." He released the swelling shaft and pulled away, patting one smooth buttock affectionately. "Now don't start without me, MacLeod." 

No response. 

He found some oil in his bag, although he couldn't remember packing it. Grinning with satisfaction at the subtle workings of a devious mind, he returned to the bed and slid in, shivering at the delicious chill of the silky, pliant body next to his own. Against his heat, it was nearly icy. 

"There, I've gone and let you get cold again. Will you forgive me?" With a tender display of apology he drew the covers up and wrapped himself around Duncan, pulling him close. A hasty exploration proved that MacLeod's penis had returned to a flaccid state, but it began to swell as soon as he took hold of it. 

"Lovely," Methos sighed. He resumed his interrupted attentions, a patient and thorough indulgence of mouth, hands and limbs that produced only the slightest trembling in Duncan's body. Methos didn't really mind— Duncan's cock was now as hard as his own, and the Highlander had fallen in sync with the slow, deep, rhythm of his breathing. It was achingly exquisite to pet him so freely, so sensually— in the past Duncan had ultimately always been seduced by skillful fondling, but only after a bitter struggle. While Methos admitted that struggle added its own exotic spice to the mix, there was something gratifyingly decadent about giving so lavishly without any obstruction. 

When he'd made himself dizzy with controlled respiration and the impression of Duncan on his senses, Methos coated his fingers with oil and slipped his hand between them. MacLeod matched him breath for breath until Methos eased one finger inside, then stopped breathing altogether, his lax body gone suddenly stiff. 

"It's okay, Duncan," Methos soothed, "you know I just want to make you feel good. Relax." 

Methos remained absolutely still until the other man's rigidity faded completely, then waited further until their breathing was once more in sync. 

"Very good," he murmured, his voice low and dark, pitched to reach through all levels of disconnection, "that's right— just let me love you." 

Something— a twitch? A tremor? It faded too quickly to tell. 

He moved his hand almost imperceptibly in slow, continuous circles, all of him sinking slowly into the smooth haze of arousal. Duncan now seemed almost hypnotized rather than insensible; his body responded with small, tentative undulations to Methos' touch, and Methos heard the faintest slipped breath of a moan as he pressed a second finger in. 

"I've missed you, MacLeod," he whispered, his words broken and muffled as he tasted the small beads of perspiration that had formed on Duncan's throat and shoulders, "and I've been waiting for you. I've been very patient, don't you think?" 

No response. 

The body pressed against his own suddenly seemed _too_ erotic, a sensuous, expectant vessel that had been readied for his pleasure— slick with sweat, passive, trembling, open. Methos quickly smoothed some oil over his burning erection, then pressed close while he drew Mac's thigh up, leaning in, following where hunger led. When he was unwilling to wait a moment longer, when craving had reached the razor's edge before tipping into ravening, he thrust deep inside with one slow, exquisite push. 

Duncan gasped, and Methos was immediately squeezed almost painfully as MacLeod's muscles locked into stiffness. A harsh groan tore Methos' throat— _he_ was the one trembling now, shuddering with pleasure as he wrapped around Duncan like a clinging vine and sank into him. Despite his preparations, the other man's ass was nearly too tight— only the slick oil made the friction tolerable, and only just barely at that. It hurt, yes— and maybe it should. It didn't stop him. 

Methos reveled in Duncan's body with smooth, pistoning strokes, and each one seduced a moan from him as pleasure built on pleasure and he found himself sliding impossibly deeper into newly warmed, passive flesh. When his eyes blinked shut there were flashes of unbearable light and color that exploded around him, waiting in abeyance for his moment of surrender to descend upon and overwhelm him. 

Methos was so lost in ecstasy that he failed to hear Duncan's first, breathy sounds, he just pulled Mac's hips firmly backwards, wrenching them tight together in an effort to satisfy the growing demands of his body. MacLeod cried out, his voice rough and hoarse from disuse. 

"Methos!" Duncan sobbed, and suddenly became a living, writhing, panting animal in Methos' embrace. "I-" 

Methos brought one hand up to clamp firmly over MacLeod's mouth, and pressed deeper. 

"Shut up, MacLeod," he hissed, his nerves on fire and his blood singing with retribution as his newly reclaimed lover struggled in his arms, "I've waited two days for you to talk, but right now I don't want to hear anything out of you except 'fuck me Methos'. Got it?" 

He didn't wait for a response, and ignored the low, tense cry muffled by his hand. He rolled forward, forcing Mac onto his stomach, and pushed the other man's shaking legs apart. Duncan bucked under him, but Methos firmed his grip and used the Highlander's efforts to his own advantage. The harder he thrust the more Duncan struggled, and Methos found himself locked in a sensual combat, groaning under waves of pain and pleasure as he shoved forward again and again while he stifled Mac's sobs with one insistent hand. 

Duncan's muscles clenched around him spasmodically, seductively; coaxing deeper and more wanton thrusts from him until the two of them became one heaving, sweating beast. Methos closed his eyes and gave himself over to sensation— every move his body made elicited a unintelligible cry, every twist and wrench of limbs became an opportunity to demand more. His senses were saturated with the intoxication of sliding in and out of luscious, gripping tightness, of taking his pleasure with such merciless abandon. 

Methos' vision had gone black as unconsciousness threatened to sweep him away on a wave of delirium. He was very, very close to release when he realized dimly that the Highlander was both fighting him and responding to him, that the wild agitation in the body he held was as much a plea for more as it was a bid for escape. A wave of tenderness blended immeasurably with some indefinable pain rocked him, saturated him as he shifted his grip slightly and increased the pace of his thrusts, pounding Duncan's shuddering body as hard as he could. Duncan screamed in response, but there was a contradictory response in the way tense thighs opened wider, in the way the tight ass beneath arched sweetly up to meet him. 

He'd fought as long as he could, but Mac's muted cries combined with the hot tears that ran over his muffling hand shocked him with an intimate overload of pleasure. He released Duncan's mouth, finding satisfaction instead in fisting his hand into a fierce, unbreakable grip on Mac's hair. The power in it, the feel of pulling sharply backward while plunging in to the fullest possible extent drew a noise from him that was almost a scream, an echo of torment fulfilled in erotic promise. 

The man beneath him heaved again and gasped desperately for air, still fighting, still resisting even though each breath was released in an uncontrollable moan. 

"Oh my God-" Duncan choked out, all broken sobs and broken words and dark reluctant lust. Methos thrust again, using his hold on MacLeod's hair to pull him hard onto his throbbing, hungry cock. 

"Yes, Duncan," he sighed, clinging ruthlessly to his control, his lover, his power. 

"Methos— please-" despairing. Lost. Beyond hope, because he no longer knew what to hope for. Methos knew the sound. It burned him. 

"Take it, Duncan. Now. Fuck-" his words were lost in his own rising, buzzing shriek, muffled against wet flesh as he bit down into a muscular shoulder— spurting blood, spurting come— copper and salt hot on his tongue and he _felt_ Duncan come, pulsing frantic heavy heartbeats all around him, howling in pleasure so close to his ear. He gave no respite, fucking with savage ruthlessness until the devastating harmony of pain and joy melted into shivering, exhausted bliss. 

When there was nothing more to be wrung from him he pulled away, collapsed onto his back next to Duncan while desperate panting gasps settled slowly into a mellow, nearly peaceful rhythm. Sooner than he would have thought possible Duncan rolled over and sat up, looking at him with a dreadful mix of appalled confusion and horror. His face was flushed, streaked with tears, but cognizant, alive, present. Methos sighed. 

"Methos..." So much of hatred and need and despair, just in the one word. Amazing. 

Dangerous. Oh— he was his own worst enemy here, no question about that— just to look into those hot, brightly live eyes, to hear that voice speak his name... 

Methos reached up and pulled Duncan's unresisting mouth to his own, sharing blood and sweat and the lingering metallic burn of rapture. He held MacLeod's head immobile while he lapped and tasted and plunged deep, another claiming, another proof, as if one had been needed. 

When he forced Duncan's head away to gaze into wet eyes he heard a weak noise of insatiate suffering— an uncontrolled sound of need for _him_ , staggeringly satisfying... saw the Highlander catch himself in revolted dismay. He allowed his own knowing smile, even though he understood that it would only deepen the wound. 

"Welcome back. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?" he murmured, indulgent now in a gentle touch on twisted, sickened features. 

Duncan shuddered, gasped— and for a brief moment Methos felt the other man's rage and confusion arrowed at him, felt his body burn in righteous fires— and subsided. 

"I... Yes." So soft he could barely hear it. 

It was enough. For now. Methos smiled again. 

* * *

"Just say it, Methos— you think I'm fucking crazy, don't you?" 

Methos placed his emptied plate back onto the ravaged room-service cart, then turned to look speculatively at Duncan. "No, I just don't believe in demons. I told you, MacLeod— you have to forgive yourself for what you've done if you want to survive. That's all." 

"There is no forgiveness for me..." It was almost soundless, barely a whisper, but Methos heard it anyway because Methos knew to expect it. Apparently that little statement was Duncan's new litany for life. 

Methos kept his temper through the simple expedient of knowing that some part of Duncan _wanted_ to be yelled at. As soon as Duncan had been able to listen Methos had made his intended statement bluntly, with perfect faith that Duncan, even delusional Duncan, _would_ respond to logic— we're none of us perfect, Mac; you've got to learn to forgive yourself for less-than-angelic actions, if you want to survive... 

Wasted breath. He might as well have stayed home and translated the rest of his damn journal, for all the good it did him. The Highlander had dismissed Methos' words out of hand, waved him off with an indifference that would have been maddening if Methos had let himself feel it. 

"There are no demons, Mac." Methos didn't whisper. He had his own little litany. His avowal of the virtues of self-absolution hadn't hit the mark, but he wasn't done yet. Methos listened, stored up stray pieces of ammunition that Duncan let slip, and bided his time. After all, there were other ways— some of them quite ingenious, not to mention undeniably pleasant— to suggest to Mac that maybe, just maybe, he still had something to live for... 

Duncan sighed heavily— such sighs had been increasing in frequency ever since this discussion had begun— and buried his head in his hands. "I'm not crazy... I'm not." 

Methos said nothing. He could have, he could have pushed it, but a quiet, calculating internal voice told him that this wasn't the right time, not yet. He wasn't really surprised that Mac was ducking responsibility for Richie's death— the initial shock had sent him spiraling into catatonia, after all. Time was needed. Time, and maybe just a few more sessions of expiation through surrender. 

The thought stirred him. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since MacLeod had snapped out of it, since Methos had unlocked Duncan's self-imposed mental shackles... since Methos had touched him. They talked in circles and ate bad hotel food and argued meaningless points of right and wrong, and Methos let it happen, let his hunger grow. He wondered, occasionally, whether or not the Highlander knew that his every move, his every word was a subtle and unspoken appeal for punishment. Probably not, as amazing as that seemed. 

There was a strange, expectant undercurrent between them now, a manifestation of all that had been left unspoken. Fear was still very present, tingling him in unexpected moments— Methos felt Duncan's fear of him like the touch of silk trailed across sensitized skin— fear of what Methos might do, deeper fear of his own responses. Methos fed on it, but was careful not to let it touch him— he would use it, in its time. 

There were no questions. In their first encounter Duncan had asked— senseless questions, important only in the needs that they revealed. Apparently MacLeod now knew Methos (or himself), well enough to know that any answers would not help him. 

Methos stretched lazily, and looked over to where Duncan sat slumped in an ugly, padded armchair, a sober, heavy expression on his face. 

"MacLeod." Soft. Duncan twitched, and glanced at him warily, almost guiltily. 

"What?" 

"Come here." Methos slid down a little on the loveseat, uncrossing his legs and letting them fall open. 

"Why?" Duncan asked defensively, "What do you want?" 

Methos smiled. Duncan's eyes flashed with it. "This isn't about what I want." 

Definite wariness now. Methos watched Duncan squirm, caught. 

"What do you mean, it's not about what you want? Are you telling me that your little wake-up scenario was just for _my_ benefit?" MacLeod scoffed, something he did very well. "I don't believe that you were motivated solely by altruism, Methos." 

Methos held Duncan's eyes silently until the Highlander swallowed and looked away. 

"Fine then. I want your mouth, MacLeod. Now come here. Come to me." 

He saw Duncan freeze, sudden statue of a man. Rich with fear. 

"Look Methos," the tone was so wonderfully percipient, so reasonable— it was good to know that Duncan had the ability for this kind of control; it opened the door to all kinds of possibilities, "there's a few things about this that we need to-" 

The flow of words cut off cold as Methos stood up. They didn't start again until Methos was there, distance easily bridged with a few casual steps. "We need to talk, Methos." 

Methos noticed that Duncan's eyes never left his hands, which had been busy unbuttoning his jeans as he walked. "I mean it..." 

Methos pulled the flaps of his jeans open. "I know you do." Still soft, the dark, beckoning voice that always made Duncan shiver. He reached out and rubbed his thumb slowly over the full lower lip, now more visible without the beard growth. 

"Your mouth is so beautiful, Duncan." Mac made a faint, almost interrogatory sound, but that was all. He didn't resist as Methos slid a thumb between moist lips, but his eyes fluttered closed. 

Methos worked the pad of his thumb gently across the other man's tongue, moving through reticence that was not quite resistance, opening a place for himself. He bent down and replaced the thumb with his own tongue, licking away reluctance, feeding out open passion. Duncan's fine tremors rocked him. 

He pulled back a bit, enough to delight in an inrush of cool air as Mac gasped against his lips. "Keep your mouth open," he whispered. 

He stood and waited, intent on Duncan's open, obedient mouth, closed eyes, and flushed skin that was just starting to break a sweat. A single drop of perspiration mesmerized him as it trickled slowly through the fine hair at MacLeod's temple. 

"Wider," he insisted, and Duncan opened. A knot had formed in the smooth, damp forehead, tension speaking without words. Methos heard it anyway, and it pleased him. He cupped one hand under the freshly shaved chin while he freed his erection with the other— Duncan's nostrils flared, thrilling him, sparking against the deep mellow flow of want. He moved his feet further apart to stabilize himself, then directed the tip of his shaft between the open, unguarded lips. 

"Take me slowly," he murmured, and shifted his hand to curve gently around to the back of MacLeod's head. He exerted no pressure, only a soft, continual guiding presence. He felt the moist whisper of Duncan's breath, and then a smooth lick of heat as wetness closed on him. Methos' eyes fluttered closed and he let his head roll back, savoring the delicate slick hollow that engulfed him in slow increments, taking more and more of him until the head of his cock rubbed silkily at the back of Duncan's throat. 

Methos drew in air with a tight hiss, fighting the urge to hold Mac's head still and shove himself forward. He didn't give in to it, but brought his other hand around to slip tenderly into the satin luxury of Duncan's hair. 

"Take a deep breath," Methos instructed, "open your throat." His voice was casual, patient. He felt MacLeod shaking, a tremor transmitted directly to his sensitive erection, but suddenly the slick barrier that had held him back was gone. Duncan slid onto him, another pleasurable inch before a reflexive flutter of muscle teased around him and a small, choked noise of panic issued from below. Mac began to pull away and Methos' hands were there, giving no allowances. 

"Don't stop, Duncan," he growled low, "just breathe. Relax. Take me in." 

He held himself still; his nerves burned as the hot mouth sank onto him in a series of short, tense strokes, punctuated with sounds of effort that sent shocks of pleasure through him. 

"Duncan— yes..." he whispered, tense with the strain of remaining motionless while he slid deeper— full and throbbing in the shelter he'd made for himself, in, and in. His hands caressed Duncan's face, fingers slipping through the wet trickle of distressed tears. He followed the liquid down, down to the smooth skin of throat distended by his width. It made him ache. 

MacLeod's shivering was more pronounced, his gasps for air more desperate. Methos felt shaking hands clutch softly at his ass, the plaintive grasp of a man caught between conflicting needs. He allowed himself to be pulled forward, and his throat splintered on a wrenching moan as he snuggled wholly within, his full length there at last. 

"Don't move," Methos panted, holding Duncan's wet face tenderly, "just stay right there, and keep breathing." MacLeod heaved for air in response, a harsh, difficult sound, and his hands tightened on Methos' buttocks. Methos began to shift forward slowly, guiding the other man back to lean against the headrest, crawling up carefully to rest one knee on each padded arm of the chair, his hands braced close along the back so that his wrists could steady the Highlander's head. 

"I'm going to take you now, Duncan," he sighed. MacLeod's only response was a gentle, fervent sound of what could have been either protest or ardor. Methos ignored it, shifting in small increments until he was settled to his satisfaction. 

"Your cock is hard. Take it out and stroke yourself. Don't come until I do." 

Duncan relaxed a little. Methos felt a subtle shift of movement from below, followed by the quiet purr of a zipper and a muffled groan that vibrated through him so fiercely that he had to bite his lip to keep his hips still. 

"Good— your mouth is so good, Duncan." Now he moved, control still held rigid as he allowed himself only the slightest rocking movements. "So wet, and hot— and so beautiful." He risked his balance to shift his hands to Duncan's head, and found an easy grip in the hollow between arched tendons at the back of the other man's neck. "I want you so much," he continued, speeding a bit, just a tiny taste of fulfillment, "you know that, don't you?" 

MacLeod hungered for him now, sucked him in eagerly, shuddering with his own pleasure. Methos heard a sharp, wild grunt of assent. 

"Yes, you know that I want you." Methos pulled back and back and back, almost out, and tightened his grip on Duncan's hair. "So— when I tell you to come to me, I don't want to wait." 

Methos thrust forward hard, testicles aching and heavy from his long constraint. He disregarded Duncan's strangled, dismayed cry, gave all frustration up to his strength as he jerked MacLeod's head forward to meet his hips. The way had been opened and he slid in fast and deep, right to the root of his cock with such satisfaction that it almost undid him. 

He spent a few perfect, delirious moments thrusting with wild abandon into Duncan's mouth, his own cries nearly loud enough to drown out the sobs that echoed through the room every time he withdrew. The pleasure was so keen that it couldn't be sustained for long— each push was a hot wet promise fulfilled. He shifted Duncan's head once, easing the path into his throat so that every slide in and out was unhindered bliss. 

"Come now," he grunted through clenched teeth, his hips ramming forward, fucking hard enough to slam Duncan's head back against the chair with each movement, "do it." 

Release coupled with suffocation is a potent mixture, and Methos gave voice to a raw cry as he came into Duncan's incoherent, tortured scream. Hot liquid spattered his ass, jetted up to his lower back, and MacLeod clung to him with a drowning man's desperation, shaking violently. He allowed it, lost all sense of control for a few frantic moments as the last brilliant bursts of ecstatic fire quenched itself in the hot welcome of Duncan's throat. 

In the aftermath the conflict of their bodies melted away, fused slowly into a languid, liquid torpor of gentle caresses, a piquant revival of the tenderness Methos had begun with. Methos sighed as he slipped free of MacLeod's mouth and shifted his knees down from the arms to the cushion of the chair, rubbing, absorbing the other man's shudders. 

"My Highlander," he murmured softly against Duncan's slick, swollen lips, seeking entrance. He cupped Duncan's face while he kissed him gently; tasted himself mixed with tears— a bitterly compelling, nostalgic flavor. He smelled sweat and musk and the sharp tang of betrayal— a special blend, created only through the old magic of an arbitrary and unexpected shift from tenderness to brutality and back again; very close in composition to an illusory suggestion of ancient desert wind. 

MacLeod didn't resist as Methos held and cuddled him, but the brown eyes were still brilliant with pain. Methos rocked slowly, claiming more and pressing closer, denying any efforts at turning away. 

"Why did you do that?" Duncan whispered. Methos met his eyes, let his own tears well— he saw them strike home, and then Mac looked away, guilty again. "I just..." Duncan's voice was ragged, "I just thought we should talk..." 

"We can talk," Methos said soothingly as he caught Duncan's chin to tilt the tense, unhappy face up to his own, "let's talk. You can start by telling me how that made you feel." 

Duncan wrenched away savagely, and Methos released his grip. He watched fury flash over MacLeod's face, swallowed quickly by panic and then tense, shuddering defeat. 

"Why ask me, if you know already?" Sullen. A beautiful, debauched child. 

Methos smiled kindly, guided the flickering, hostile eyes back to his own. "I told you— I love it when you make me hot." 

No response. 

* * *

The piercing spray of the shower was hot, but not hot enough to wash away the molten flush of shame. Duncan washed his body automatically, kept his thoughts carefully blank as he turned the temperature up again. He shivered as restless images pushed at him, refusing to be kept down, demanding answers from a mind that was already overwhelmed. 

Methos had suggested the shower, and Duncan went without another word; desperate for a little time and distance away from events that defied understanding. Rational thought had fled, abandoned in the very moment he ended Richie's life. 

His hands clenched into fists, remembered pain stiffened his limbs, and his throat cracked raw and sick with horror. He'd been miserable enough before, immobilized between rage and terror at the thought of what he'd been tricked into doing, but now Methos' implacable insistence that there was no demon had made things unutterably worse. 

A cool, seductive blackness began to steal his vision, draining the pain away and offering refuge in tranquil isolation. Richie's death had undone him in some vital way, made a mockery of everything he'd thought he was. He'd fled mindlessly, but there proved to be no escape except into his own inner silence, a cold, frighteningly black place whose existence he hadn't even suspected. It called to him still, that vacant, quiet place of no memories, no regrets. 

Without thought, Duncan slapped his own face as hard as he could, holding to the brief sting like a lifeline. His vision cleared, and he sighed heavily. He was determined not to retreat again— it gained him no advantage in any battle whether real or imagined, and God only knew what Methos would do with him if he slipped back. 

_Methos_

His skin shivered with goosebumps, followed immediately by a rush of sexual heat that nearly drove him to his knees. Methos had done something to him, had brought him by degrees into a prison only marginally better than the one he'd escaped from. His first moments of awareness were clouded with the sense of Methos, a dim reassurance within his closed silence that he was being touched, loved, cared for. He'd surfaced towards it, seeking blindly for any warmth and light that might offer surcease from the endless cold black depths. He had known it was Methos, even in his thick padding of isolation, and he'd wanted, needed, to reach out. 

Duncan leaned heavily against the slick, tiled wall. His hands clutched hard at his upper arms to control the shaking as memory took him, as he remembered flooding all at once back into his body, and finding it already occupied. Panic and pain followed, and a wave of betrayal so profound that it left him weak. 

The real pain, of course, lay in the fact that he couldn't even find a rationale for the extent of his horror— he was fully aware of what Methos was capable of, after all; had known those parameters intimately ever since the first time Methos refused to let him go. Blame, betrayal— these were pointless dynamics when he'd known damn well what Methos was. 

Gritting his teeth with concentration, Duncan lifted away from the wall and continued his ablutions, despairing of making himself feel any cleaner. He'd been compromised, utterly and totally— self-will? Right. An empty promise to slip glibly off the tongue, rooted only in the counterfeit foundation of pretense. 

And, in the end, even the pain had betrayed him. The guilt-ridden man within lusted for it, yearned after it as a possible element in the recipe of penance, but his body had found a voluptuous, weightless delirium that existed within the pain and yanked him right past retribution and into debased ecstasy. Shame— such deep, powerful shame... 

Duncan closed his eyes and turned his face into the spray as sudden hatred bloomed hot in his chest, an urge to punish that moved sinuously within, familiar response to any threat. Rage shook through his limbs at the memory of Methos' demands, his carefully calculated manipulations... but how could he allow the rage to exist when he twisted on the barbed hook of memory— his own excitement; everything obliterated except the deadly edge of a toxically addictive pleasure, the keenness of craving that burnt in him, even now. 

The opposite side of the equation burned in him too— soft lips taking his breath, knowing hands that held him close with a tenderness that flowed like blood from a fatal wound; frightening in its abundance, catastrophic in its reality. He was trapped, caught perfectly in a mesh of need that pulled him under despite the revolt of mind and spirit, and hating Methos was as much an exercise in futility as wishing poor Richie back to life. 

Tears went unnoticed in the torrent that sluiced over his face, small drops of leached despair blending invisibly with water that carried no power to either cleanse or heal, diluted but undiminished pain that spun down into cross-hatched darkness; abandoned, irredeemable, lost. 

* * *

Three days later and Duncan was still immobile, still held fast in the grip of a passion that was as irresistible as it was dangerous. Methos had rescued him from endless cycling death locked within the confines of his own mind, but Methos' gift of deliverance had not been given without a price— a terribly high price. 

Duncan turned his head to look at the pillow next to his own where Methos slept peacefully, the soft fringe of lashes curled sootily on pale cheeks suggestive of an innocence that seemed nearly obscene given the raw violence of the drama they'd just enacted. He sighed and closed his eyes and floated free within his buzzing body, unable to comprehend how there could be such mellow satisfaction in reflecting on what had just happened between them, in diving into the blood-lit memories of an abomination. 

Even stripped of clothing and dignity; Duncan still couldn't stop fighting. It was automatic and it never got him anywhere and it just made Methos laugh at him and that hurt even worse, but he couldn't help it. The strength of will that would have allowed him to win oozed away the moment his cock hardened— betrayed by both Methos and himself, what strength was there to call on? There was only despair that would never sink into resignation, only desire that ate away at the core of what was left of him. 

"What do you want, Duncan?" he could see Methos' smile, even in the dimness. 

"Get off me..." his own voice sounded dreadfully weak, even to himself. 

Warm hand— knowing hand, cupping him at the source of everything. "Get off you? Or get you off— your choice, Mac." 

"Don't... don't-" gasping— God, there was never enough air, and always tears, now terribly familiar, terrifyingly comforting. 

"Mmm...tell me, Duncan, or I'll choose for you," Methos' mouth descended, kissed him almost to the point of coming, pulled away the moment it was cruel to do so. "I can fuck you, if you like— you can even tell me how you want it. My guess would be hard— you're such a whore for pain, MacLeod." 

He responded, wailing, hating Methos for saying it, hating himself for the truth of it. Methos lost patience— cries always made him impatient, but Duncan could never manage any degree of success in suppressing them— and flipped him over, pulled him roughly to his knees. 

"You're going to come quickly now. Enjoy it, because you're going to have to beg for the next one." 

Panting through the haze, Duncan's mind grappled with that— he begged every time, didn't he? He was sure that he did, unless his pleas were throttled at the source by Methos' engorged flesh. 

The first thrust of Methos' tongue into his ass drove all such questions from his mind. Sweet fire melted his spine, jolted him with fierce, urgent flickers of want. He opened, obedient, and his acquiescent body absorbed only five hot stabs of liquid ecstasy before he screamed, locked into bright-edged, rigid panic, and gushed out onto the sheet beneath. He fell sideways but Methos caught him— Methos always caught him, somehow— caught him and pulled him close. 

"Hush, MacLeod," Methos' hands were tender and soft against him, cradling and rocking and engulfing his sobs in the welcoming hollow of his shoulder, "it's just a rim-job— nothing to cry about. It's over now— Shh." 

When his tears had evaporated to desolation and darkness he shifted, caught only the bright gleam of Methos' eyes. "Why are you doing this to me?" He regretted asking even as the words left his mouth. All questions were pointless, he knew that. 

Methos smiled. "You want this." Methos lowered close, but Duncan pressed against his chest firmly, ignoring the craving for the taste of his mouth. 

"I don't want this, Methos— what you do to me... it hurts me, dammit." He tensed. 

Methos only blinked at him, indifferent. "Yes. And when it hurts bad enough, you come. Hard. Where's the problem?" 

Duncan winced. "Don't you care that you're destroying... us? I... I wanted to love you, Methos. I can't love you when you scare me like this." 

Methos smirked, mockingly. "You wanted to love me so much you let me wake up alone after our last time, Duncan— showed your love for me by treating me like something bad you stepped in." His arms tightened, and Duncan went willingly, held with confusing, contradictory intimacy against Methos' damp, silky chest. "You don't get to hold the destruction of our relationship over my head, MacLeod— not after what you did." 

"You frighten me..." the whisper refused to be held back but it was breathless, strengthless; never to be spoken anywhere but against the pulse of Methos' throat. 

Methos pulled away from him, not angrily, but Duncan's heart staggered in his chest nonetheless. He uttered a low groan of terror as Methos reached for him and guided him up onto his knees. Already, he shook. 

Methos regarded him calmly, kneeling across from him in the same position as if they were about to stage some bizarre ceremony. "You don't know what fear is, MacLeod." His voice was gentle, seductive. "When we get there, I'll let you know." 

"Oh— you bastard..." His mouth moved, groped for the rest of the words that needed to be said if he was ever going to break free; but there was nothing, nothing... 

"What do you want, Duncan?" 

They were back to that again. The shakes were uncontrollable, and he felt his own heartbeat furious and high in his throat. "I want you dead." 

Methos didn't even blink. "Say it again, Duncan." 

He was shaking himself apart, inside— some huge thing tore loose within and burst, bloody and free into the dark home he'd made for it. "I want you _dead_." 

Methos reclined in front of him, cock erect and bobbing slightly, legs wide. "Again. And fuck me while you say it." 

"No..." God, if he did that— if Methos made him do that... 

"You want to. I know... I know what you really want, Duncan-" 

More games. More moments of hideously exposed terror while Methos screwed with his mind. So why was he creeping between Methos' thighs? 

"I want you DEAD!" He screamed, and plunged forward. Methos struck and pulled, shoved against him, tore around him so that blood eased the path. Methos' agonized shriek ripped through him, sparked him, showed him an appetite for brutality that threatened damnation. His erection burned, chafed and abraded past pleasure but still a rock-hard thing of fire that consumed and took— everything, taking his breath, his life— whatever pitiful piece of his soul remained... 

"I— want you... _dead_..." 

"Yes!" A harsh rattle of sound. "Harder— fucking _harder_ , MacLeod!" 

He thrust and pounded, slamming towards completion. Methos' hands swooped in to claw at him and without thinking he grabbed and held; no problem at all now with weakness— he was terribly strong, a righteous fire, and God help him it wasn't what he wanted— it wasn't what he was supposed to be... 

"That's it, Duncan," Methos sobbed into his ear, "make me take it— oh fucking Christ, yes-" 

"I want you..." His body held but his voice gave out, hot and broken in his splintered throat. He let it go. His body would have to do. 

He rose up, his weight a fulcrum to pin Methos to the wet, bloody sheets, and drove himself faster. Methos wailed in his grip, bucked and arched beneath him, shaking, suspended, waiting for him to give the word. Apparently he wouldn't have to beg for this one, after all. Duncan's eyes burned with new tears. 

"I want you..." A demand— speaking the words felt like a purge. He trembled with tears, a terrible, deep weeping and everything was burned, lost, dead... 

Methos gave him nothing. Answering tears and a hungry body and the bright fire of white-hot lust, that was all. Not enough. He turned inward, shut out all external reality except for the simple physical pleasure of snug flesh riding his shaft. Thrust again and again and felt things narrow down, release gathered and waited for him in the darkness— his cock was fed while his heart went hungry but there wasn't much he could do about that... 

"Come!" The word snarled out of him, as deep and compelling as if it hadn't been soaked in pain on its way to the surface. Methos howled and fought like a wild animal beneath him, something hot and wet hit his chest; and Duncan groaned in disconsolate ecstasy as he pumped himself into sucking, rippling darkness where muscles clenched and milked him dry, leaving him cursed, emptier than he'd ever been. 

And then panting, panting in the dark while things slowed and meshed; Methos rose below him like a wave of flesh, rubbing as if he couldn't get enough. 

"Methos. Are you trying to prove to me that you want to die?" He jumped a little, startled. He hadn't meant to speak his question aloud. 

"No," Methos purred against him, nuzzling. "I'm trying to prove to you that you don't." 

That choked him. He'd never felt more like dying than he did in this moment. He'd found no words to express his outrage when Methos groped blindly at his face and pulled him into an exhausted, lingering, succulent kiss. His eyes burned. 

"Oh, MacLeod," Methos sighed blissfully when their lips parted, "you are _such_ a great fuck." 

He bit his lips and squeezed his eyes shut, refusing further tears. He'd cried enough. "You think rape is a great thing, Methos?" It cost him to say it. He pushed through anyway. "Is this what you rescued me for?" 

Methos chuckled against his neck. "We've been through this before, Mac," Duncan blinked as one trembling finger traced gently over his face, "If you want to complain to somebody, maybe you should speak to your cock— it seems to have a lot to answer for." 

And to that, he had no response. 

Now terror and grief took up their accustomed places, his normal state of existence when he wasn't engaging in some form of perversion with Methos. His own heart beat dull and heavy in his ears, and some tidal dread shifted within him as he watched Methos sleep in satiated, deceptive sweetness. There was fear, yes, but more than fear— a looming, overwhelming despair at the not-quite-realized understanding of what he'd become. His breath seemed caught high in his throat, and his skin rashed with icy goosebumps. Methos slept on. 

Methos' face looked almost mask-like in the dim light, varying shades of grey unblended and distinct, stark relief of chiaroscuro— shuttered, and eerily blameless. Duncan understood, with a profound click that was nearly audible inside his head, that there was none of the pure clarity of love or hate in the muddied waters of obsession. 

Slowly, tentatively, Duncan reached out and placed his hand against the warm, living surface of Methos' cheek. The solid reality of the touch surprised him, as if Methos must be chimerical to be acceptant and undefended against his caresses. 

Duncan felt his stomach tighten. Something was coming for him, he felt it— some freshly realized awareness that could heal or kill, locked deep in his mind until this brief moment of solitary clarity. He closed his eyes, and waited. 

His mind rushed, blazed, arced open with sudden knowledge-he had to go. He had to go now. Methos was beyond the pale, had orchestrated within him an eclipse of darkness that would destroy him, damn him to endless night if it went on. 

He paused, relieved when his breathing deepened past the block in his throat, eyes wet again but that was alright now, because there was certainly sadness here, as sick as it might make him. 

He was in the middle of a slow slide out of the bed, one foot already set firmly on the rug when a glimmer of light from the closed hotel-room door caught his attention— a murky red glow, oozing like fog across the floor toward him, harbinger and warning; a deadly indication that his final, desperate bid for freedom had come too late. 

* * *

Methos could have sworn he'd gone to sleep in a hotel room. He'd closed his eyes on the hot smell of sex and a tremendous, pleasured ache in his body— floating, blissful; untethered from everything real and almost drunk on what Mac had wrung from him. 

Yes. Mac had fucked him stupid in a sturdy hotel bed. Therefore, he must be dreaming. 

The walls were gone. The sturdy hotel bed was still there but the walls of the room were nothing but flickering grey mist. As he watched, the mist swirled and coalesced, transformed to rough, dank stone, solid in some places, blackness yawning at intervals like paths through a catacomb. 

He blinked. This was not a dream. He smelled wet subterranean rot, felt a cold wind on his face. 

This had to be a dream. 

It had the slowness of a dream; the weightless, sludgy immobility of fear, failure to run, failure to escape. His body was torpid and dense, all live electric jitter on the inside, somehow floating and yet too heavy to move. 

He blinked again. When he opened his eyes, the rock walls had mutated to long swags of flapping canvas, and Kronos was sitting on his chest. 

For the first time ever, Kronos' presence eased him. Kronos was dead. Furthermore, Kronos had abandoned the armor-and-facepaint look thousands of years ago. Therefore, this must be a dream. 

It would be good to wake up now. 

"Beautiful traitor," Kronos said conversationally, reaching out to trace his lips with slow sensuality, "no truth so powerful as that twisted by keen lies. Alchemy and old secrets— what is it you hope to forge here, Methos, with your tortured truths? Salvation? Love? Your love is death— did you forget that?" 

Sand and sweat. Kronos' finger against his lips stung, burned, wracked the fibers of his body with the old echo of compulsion. He would wake soon— he had to. Here was the proof of his own, half-realized suspicions— incontrovertible evidence that Duncan MacLeod called forth more from him than was safe or wise. He'd ignored too many whisper-soft apprehensions, and this maddened, terror-flickering dream was the result. Enough. More than enough. 

Methos closed his eyes and pulled in as much air as he could. The weight on his chest fluctuated wildly— sometimes so real and solid that it crushed him, sometimes nothing more than a pall of vapor. //Wake up. Wake up— wake up now, Methos, your mind has had it— you'll have to leave him behind and let him make his way as best he can but I don't care if you suffer the cold fires of loneliness forever because you need to _wake_ _UP_...// 

When he opened his eyes, Kronos was still there— staring, mocking; a cumbrous weight. So far he'd kept off the fear, but now it fell upon him all at once, slick and terrible, shuddering in his body like the onset of death. He fought without thinking, knowing only that if he didn't get away from the intimate press of Kronos' body it would drive him insane. "Get off of me!" The words spilled hysterically from his tight throat, each one a squeezed bullet of denial. 

He thrashed as hard as he could until a quiet 'snick' of sound cut through the fog of panic, until Kronos leaned into him and flashed one hand forward to mark hot wet pain under his throat. He froze. 

Kronos stretched out carefully atop his naked body— an icy, metallic burden; sharp contrast to the heat of blood that flowed from the cut on his neck. Methos panted under the blade, shrinking from it. 

"Get off of you?... Or get you off?" Kronos' voice was as knowing and lecherous as ever, his body a recollected shameful pleasure as he rocked between Methos' thighs, traced a filigree of skilled pain into Methos' throat. "Your choice, Methos." 

Methos gasped in aroused terror, his muscles frozen. This was no dream. There was no way his own mind would be this cruel to him. Duncan had the right of it, after all, and the condensed black horror drew a shriek from him— Kronos was _dead_ , dead and buried and committed to the earth months ago; which left no doubt as to the identity of this hot thing that hovered over him and jabbed at him with knife and cock. 

He screamed until his throat fractured, but the creature that pinned him only watched avidly, nostrils flared as if savoring the smell of him. When his cries trailed off to weak, choking noises the familiar face nuzzled him, sighing. 

"I've missed your screams so, brother. You always did know how to please me." 

Methos' teeth chattered. "Kronos?" It hurt to speak. 

A hot, slick tongue slipped into his ear, jolted him, retreated. "Yes." 

"No..." his own voice was terribly feeble, desperate. "Please— no." 

The other didn't gainsay him, but suddenly Kronos had a fierce, unrelenting grip on his thighs, squeezing brutally. "Your choice, Methos. Blade or cock— one of them's going up your ass. What's your pleasure?" 

Methos writhed, sucked in air that seemed suddenly too thin to support life. "No! Kronos-" 

His struggles gained him nothing. The body above him was as dense as stone in places, misty and ephemeral in others. "Please don't..." 

Kronos rose above him, so very high, stretched like a snake to loom over him like a storm of black metal. "Then obey me, Methos. Amend your broken promise and I'll let you go." 

"What?" His mind seemed horribly slow, dragging under the weight of fear, the weight of ancient rock. 

The world blurred, shifted, and then Methos was on his feet, naked except for the cold iron of Kronos' arms around him from behind. The blade— a curved, cruel knife, still stained with his blood— rested in his own hand. 

"You swore a promise in a brother's blood. Keep your promise, Methos." Kronos' words stirred against his hair. 

Methos looked up. MacLeod was there before him, strapped onto the 'X' shape of two crossed beams. His head hung forward, slack and inanimate, crowned with a garland of white roses. His forehead was marked with a few drops of blood from where the thorns had punctured the skin. The garland was his only raiment, but the rest of his powerful form was hidden behind black, runic script that covered every inch below his throat, vertical lines of arcane symbols in some language Methos had never seen. 

"Oh no." It whispered out of him, paper-dry, and he would have dropped the knife if Kronos' fingers hadn't fastened over his hand. 

"Oh yes." Seductive flattery in his ear, warm and compelling. "This is the price of your freedom. He's ready for you, Methos— he'd rather it was you." 

"No!" His throat had healed, and his high-pitched cry carried and echoed between the wavering walls. He struggled again, but the arms that held him were implacable. 

"You've already poisoned the well of his mind, Methos." Kronos' voice was almost mournful. "You've already broken his link with the one thing that allowed him to survive— his belief in his own goodness. You came here to save him, to tell him that monstrosity is inevitable, to get him to accept it and go on. Was it stupidity or malice that kept you from understanding that this would destroy him?" 

Methos went rigid as if struck with sudden paralysis. His stomach clenched, and for a moment he thought he might vomit. Kronos paid no mind to him, but continued on. "When you walk the world clothed in the White, grey is not grey but an eclipse of hope that equals the very pit of blackness." 

A shiver struck his core, and the motion somehow released him. "I was wrong about some things. He'll get over it." Clever demon, to use his desire to believe that anything he said or did mattered to MacLeod... 

Kronos' voice grew angry, hectoring. "He wanted to stand and fight, Methos. He wanted to fulfill his destiny— to do righteous battle with all the power of his faith and conviction behind him. Now he is broken, muddied; defiled by your sweet, solicitous insistence that we're none of us perfect. You did worse than rape his body, Methos. You raped his soul." 

The acrimonious words died away, a fading phantom of wrath that merged seamlessly into a rising chuckle. The arms around him tightened into a grotesquely affectionate hug, and Methos' mouth filled with the sour electric tang of hate. "You did my work beautifully," the demon continued, "and I won't forget to be properly grateful. You want to burn, do you not? Is that not why you've been chasing the shadows of power with this weak vessel?" 

"You bastard-" Before his will could flag he struck with the knife, a swift duck-turn-and-thrust that should have left Kronos eviscerated and gasping on the floor. The knife evaporated in his hand, but it would have been useless anyway because Kronos wasn't behind him at all. Kronos sat cross-legged on the bed, regarding him with amused delight. 

"Hah! That wouldn't have done you much good in any case. You've gotten terribly slow in your old age." Kronos lazed and smiled, pulled the knife from a sheath at his hip and flipped it, casually. Caught it, easily. "This is it, Methos." He pointed with the tip of the blade to the painted sacrifice hanging from the crossed beams. "Will you take his head?" 

"No." Methos' lips went numb as he spoke the word. 

The knife shifted, rotated to point at his chest. "Do you want to die?" 

"No." Ice— ice in his throat, cold dread choking, waiting... 

"Very well then." The knife flipped, circled, spun through the air in majestic slow motion that sent liquid sparks skittering off the curved edge. It went higher and higher into the grey mist that had been the ceiling, and as it paused at the top of its arc Methos saw the sickle moon, holding sway over the cool desert night while the sand stretched forever in every direction. 

The moon descended, became a knife again; was tucked away in its sheath with the ease of long practice. "I have to go take care of a little business, Methos. I'll be back." 

Startled, Methos met the glittering, bird-bright eyes, and all the breath dropped out of him. Demon or no demon, the man on the bed before him now stared at him with such a Kronos-perfect look of comprehension that it made his heart race. He watched as Kronos got to his feet, each movement something he'd seen a thousand times before, embedded in his consciousness forever. The last thing seen was that mock-tolerant, shrewd smile of anticipation, so well remembered that it made his cock harden, his mouth water, and his body shudder with perfectly recalled agony, all at once. 

The shakes worsened as Kronos melted away in a swirl of red fog, and Methos tried desperately to hang on until the other man disappeared entirely. He couldn't. He fell to his knees with a despairing sob, Kronos' scornful laughter thick and hateful in his ears. 

* * *

Methos watched from his knees while he waited for his breath to slow, watched and waited for the hotel room to come back into focus, but it didn't happen. He was trapped in a grey enclosure that melted by turns into stiff, rippling canvas or ragged and dripping rock with only... 

//Oh, Jesus, no-// 

An ancient, rough-hewn table; the sight of which wrenched him with foul memory as he registered the bowl, the cloth, the tall vessel of water... and the small, earthenware cup of oil. He couldn't look at it long, but it was amazingly difficult to drag his eyes away. Something deep in his chest burned and roiled with horror, and it was too easy to envision himself greased and ready, hurting and bleeding and screaming— but not riding that hot edge between satisfaction and craving... not with Duncan... 

_Duncan_ — he was there, on the floor, grey and Methos had almost missed him against the color of the fog. The garland of roses, the crossed beams and the runic paint were all gone— the offering had been rejected, the sacrifice forsaken. MacLeod was naked and insensible, stretched headlong on the floor, his fine skin covered with a strange, sooty layer of ash. Methos knelt. 

"MacLeod." He slapped the other man's cheeks lightly, used his other hand to shake the cold shoulders. "Wake up, MacLeod, and help me." His voice trembled, and he fell silent. 

"Please... Methos..." Duncan's words were slurred and sonorous, an auditory picture of despair. Methos bit his lip and kept tapping MacLeod's face until the brown eyes opened and focused on him, wide and afraid. "Methos— the demon..." 

"I know." It was all he was prepared to say about it, at the moment. "Do you know how to beat it, MacLeod?" 

Duncan glared at him reproachfully. "If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I? I wouldn't have..." he trailed off, and Methos watched pain obscure panic in the other man's eyes. 

"Stop that!" His voice was sharper than he'd intended, but it had the wanted effect— the brown eyes cleared. "Get up," he continued in a softer tone. "He's not gone for long, Mac. We need to figure out what to do." 

"There's nothing we _can_ do, Methos." Duncan sounded despondent, but he allowed Methos to pull him to his feet. 

Methos closed his eyes and sighed, searching for the right words, the right way to say this. There was too much of the past here, too many doors he didn't want to open. "He offered me a choice. Either I kill you, or he would kill me. I chose neither." He opened his eyes and stared into the hungry vacuum of MacLeod's gaze. "We have to find another way...it was Kronos, Mac. You really don't want to know any more about what he's capable of." 

Duncan flinched, and his face went pale beneath streaks of ash. "Christ— no..." Methos tensed as strong hands closed on him, pulled him close. "Methos, I don't want to live like this, I... I haven't really wanted to live since Richie... You can't... you have to take my head." 

"Fuck!" The word exploded from him forcefully, and Duncan jumped. "I said no before, MacLeod, and I meant it. If that bastard wants you dead he'll have to kill you himself." 

"He can't!" Duncan's voice was almost a wail, "it's the one thing he _can't_ do! But you can-" 

Methos' reins on his temper slipped, and he shook Duncan like a terrier shakes a rat. "Goddamn it, MacLeod, what the hell is wrong with you— what happened to your backbone? You're a warrior, damn it, not some sniveling coward! You're strong, MacLeod— tempered in fire— your faith has seen you through the past four hundred bloody years, through more challenges than I've taken in my entire life! You find that strength and you _use_ it, damn you, or else..." he trailed off, his anger evaporating, staring ripe with an old fear into Duncan's shocked, empty face. "You don't want to know, Mac. You really don't want to know." 

Duncan flinched, his eyes dark and haunted. "Oh God..." He pulled away, shivering. "Methos I can't do this... if I pick up a sword around him and you're here I'll... I can't-" 

Methos took one last chance; his hands gentle now as he pulled Duncan to him, as he held and soothed and tried to imagine what magical key would restore the Highlander's faith in himself. "You _can_ be strong, Duncan— I know you can. You _can_ fight this thing..." and on and on and on, crooning, seeking the right words. 

At first Mac lay limply against him, but gradually, almost imperceptibly, Duncan changed. Methos felt a gathering strength, a curious, increasing density— almost as if the man in his arms was somehow becoming more _real_. A hand on his face surprised him, guiding him, compelling him to meet questing, desperate eyes. 

The glance held for only the briefest of moments before Duncan shivered in his arms and turned away. Methos saw, and understood, Mac's head shake of denial even though there was no verbal response. He sighed. Stepped away. Let his head drop and his eyes close. Wished that he didn't feel so much like hurling Duncan through the nearest wall. Or non-wall, for that matter. 

"Come on then," he said coldly, walking towards the table. 

He was pouring water from the pitcher to the bowl when Duncan's voice came hesitantly to his ears; soft, anxious. "What is it, Methos? Did Kronos-" 

Methos tensed and slammed the pitcher onto the table, almost hard enough to break it. "You don't get to ask any questions," he hissed venomously, clutching the bowl with all of his strength. "Until you're prepared to do battle with this thing, you're not going to get to do much of anything except sweat and scream. Be ready for it." 

Duncan subsided, cowed. Methos hated him for it. He saw terrible, dismayed awareness bloom in the brown eyes— it was his one hope, that Duncan would refuse this final violation... 

But apparently, all resistance to violation had been burnt out of him. He submitted meekly to Methos' touch, his eyes lowered. Methos was sickened— was this what Kronos had seen in him all those years ago, after most of the fight had been trained out of him— a bold, brave man brought low by his own accursed weakness? He was suddenly sure that it was so. 

Methos was neither rough nor gentle with the Highlander as he washed and prepared him. The ancient musk of sandalwood oil produced a knee— weakening rush of memory, and Methos' penis hardened at once. Duncan began to cry silently when Methos slipped oiled fingers into his ass, and Methos had to clamp down fiercely on the sudden, overwhelming urge to either scream at him or shove him face-down on the table and fuck him within an inch of his life. He washed and readied himself with the same automatic detachment, paused in thought for a moment, then oiled his erection. 

He took more oil from the cup and reached for Duncan's flaccid penis. The Highlander shivered and stood aloof under his touch for a moment, but then all reticence fell away and he crowded close, holding to Methos like a man sliding helplessly into an abyss. Methos' rage flashed one more bright-hot flare through him before it melted into a terrible, welling pity. He gathered MacLeod to him and stroked his hardening cock tenderly, softly; the circle of memory closed and he was instantaneously back again to where he swore he'd never be— too much vulnerability enclosed in his embrace, too little protection from the threat of the dangers around their little hecatomb of two. 

* * *

As the first glimpse of blood-red mist swirled at the periphery of his vision Duncan went absolutely rigid in his arms. Methos pushed him away gently, and turned to see Kronos striding toward them, triumphant. 

The demon's first words were directed at Duncan. "Pick up your sword." 

There was a hushed thump, and the Highlander's katana landed on the carpet next to their feet. 

Methos winced in anticipation of MacLeod's response— he'd said he never wanted to see that sword again, had become almost overwrought when Methos had only mentioned it... 

Duncan surprised him. His shoulders were square and set, his head high. He spared a glance at the sword on the floor, then looked back at Kronos, his face tight with contempt. "I will not. Go fuck yourself." His voice trembled, but there was none of that tone of despair from before. 

Kronos laughed and nodded, as if this response delighted him. Methos realized with a sudden chill that Duncan's only concern was that he not be responsible for anyone else's death— that was the only threat that held any fear over him. He reflected on that for a moment, wondering if between MacLeod's attitude and his own they somehow evened the scales. There was _something_ there, some suggestion that tugged at the edges of his mind, vaguely... 

He had no time to think about it. Kronos turned to him, and Methos was instantly caught in that light, penetrating gaze. "He wants to die, Methos. Will you deny him this? Think carefully before you answer— it's your last chance, and his last hope for salvation." 

Methos ignored the wide-open fire in Duncan's eyes, and shrugged. "You want him dead, you kill him. Go fuck yourself." 

Kronos was not as delighted with his response. Methos didn't even see him move, but suddenly Kronos was _right there_ , wild fury and something more than that in the wide, mad eyes, his hands tight on Methos' head, crushing. Methos heard a sickening _crack_ that seemed to be happening somehow /inside/ his head, and then awareness crowded down to a pinpoint, one speck of light in a world of dark pain. 

"How long do you think it will take, my brother?" Kronos hissed at him, "how long before you're reduced to the crawling, servile worm you used to be? Three days? A week at best? A week between now and the time you cease to be a man and become only-" 

"Enough!" Duncan's voice shot through the haze that Methos had been sinking in, a haze of monstrous pain coupled with icy, frozen fear, licked at the edges with hot electric panic. His vision had blurred, but he caught a vague picture of Duncan over Kronos' shoulder, reaching... 

The killing pressure on his head eased as Kronos flew away from him, hissing in recoil at Duncan's touch. Methos gasped and sank gracelessly to his knees, holding his head, waiting for his skull to knit. Black clusters bloomed at the edges of his sight, but through it he saw MacLeod standing before him, shielding him, offering whatever protection was to be had. Methos said a brief and silent prayer of gratitude for clan instinct, and waited for the grinding, torturous buzz in his head to go away. 

"Your battle is with me, demon," Duncan's voice was steady, commanding; Methos only hoped that it was enough. "You will not harm him, nor any more of mine." 

Kronos laughed again, contemptuously. "Yours!" The word was derisive, mocking, perfectly Kronos. "Come now, Highlander— surely even you must know that you'd have to be much better at doling out pain for him to be yours? He is a slut for anyone with the heaviest hand, that's all. Surely he's informed you of this fact?" 

"I don't... You..." Duncan's voice was softer, less sure. 

"For the weaker ones, like yourself, he's nothing but betrayal and death. He's a whore for pain, MacLeod, he craves it like air— and you can't give it to him, can you? All you can do is take it from him-" 

"Shut up!" There was a harsh, rising note of panic now, and Methos wanted to reach out; but the image intervened of Mac screaming into his palm, choking on his cock, and he couldn't move. 

"You don't know how many times, or in how many ways he's betrayed you," Kronos continued sorrowfully; "you've been chasing shadows with him. Blood comes not from the stone, Highlander, no matter how hard you squeeze, and love comes not from death-" 

Methos heard Duncan sob, and his eyes fluttered closed as something cold and infinitely weary beat in his chest. 

"You've been one of his little games, you know— one of the more amusing ones. How far can he push you? Can he rob you of your self-respect, your pride, your sanity? You doubt yourself, Highlander; according to his design— and when he has reduced you to nothing more than a shadow of his will he'll grow bored and cast you off—" 

"You _lie!_ " Duncan's voice was full of hatred— bloody, bitter hatred— but no conviction. 

Methos was dragged up from his knees so roughly that his head spun. Everything whirled as the mist pressed close and he felt himself rushing, rushing through layers of darkness towards some unknown, crashing end. 

The fog cleared, and Methos found himself strapped to the solid wood of crossed beams, his limbs pulled horrifically tight. Blood and dirt caked his skin, and a gruesome string of looped, peeled skulls, infant-small, hung about his neck. 

There was no air. He gasped and sucked for breath, but it seemed as if his lungs had been replaced with some stiff cartilage that would not give— his body felt itself dying for air and yet he simply remained, stifled and mute. 

Duncan stood before him, dark with hatred still, and over his tense shoulder Methos saw the demon smile. 

"Is this the creature whose devotion you seek, MacLeod— this ancient, rotting, murderer's soul trapped forever in this lovely body; only truly alive when he's cut to ribbons or fucked till his blood runs sticky down his thighs or busy with one of his pitiful games of ruination? His age ate him from the inside millennia ago— life renounced him, and death took its place. This is death, Highlander. This is what you tried to love." 

Methos tried. "No-" a breathless whisper, shaped with lips that found it too much effort. No one heard him. 

"Shall I prove to you, then, that he cares only for whatever master can successfully wield the whip hand? Shall I show you the maze of lies he has in place of a heart?" Duncan's head shook in forceless negation, but Kronos continued on, his voice pitying, grotesquely tender. "It gnaws at you terribly, MacLeod, doesn't it?" 

No response. Duncan stood shocked and mute, trembling, his hands clutching and grasping obliquely at nothing. 

A quiet moment passed, and then Methos saw Duncan stoop, bending so gradually he looked like slowly melting wax. One shaking hand reached out, crept forward in infinitesimal increments, and closed finally, all trembling ceased, around his katana. 

Methos sobbed voicelessly, fighting his deadened lungs. "Mac— don't..." it reached no farther than the scream inside his own head. 

Duncan stood like a man going regretfully to his death, pulled listlessly to draw the blade from the sheath. Hateful red vapor swirled at the edge of vision, and to his surprise Methos saw the demon fading back, waning; a dark chuckle draining away in the fog, leaving them to face each other, as perhaps it had been meant to be. 

* * *

All he had were his eyes, so he used them as best he could. He held Duncan's gaze, searching for the sanity that must be there _somewhere_ underneath that vast ocean of pain. 

Duncan moved closer, eyes flickering as if he were absorbing the picture of Methos' gore-streaked body. Closer still, and Methos saw something rising from the deeps within— Mac's features twisted and broke, and Methos realized to his grave dismay that for the first time in as long as he could remember he'd actually underestimated something...something about the depth of Duncan's feelings for him...the same something that was probably about to get him killed. It bit him, pierced him, lanced through to his core— and tumbling after it, too late now to do him any good, was an understanding of exactly what it was that Mac needed to win the battle he'd been drawn into so unwillingly... 

And then Duncan's lips were hard against his own, salted with unknown blood. 

This touch brought air back to his world, and Methos sucked in a desperate, whooping breath from the Highlander's lungs. Duncan shared breath with him, took and gave, and Methos panted against his mouth, his body twitching with reaction. 

"Duncan, you can't...don't...don't believe him." 

MacLeod pulled away, new tears bright on his cheeks. Despite the brilliance of his eyes, he regarded Methos dully. "I'm not going to kill you, Methos, so stop looking at me like that." 

"Duncan-" 

"I don't really want to hear it, Methos. I just needed-" 

"No!...Wait. This is...important." He felt like he'd never stop gasping, that his body would never stop feeling starved for air. 

"You don't need to say anything, Methos-" 

"The first time I met you," Methos interrupted frantically, "I tested you. I would never have let you take my head." 

MacLeod was silent for a moment, his eyes shocked wide. "What?" 

Methos sighed sadly. "I didn't know you, Mac. It was a hard situation. If you had taken me up on my offer, I would have either slipped away or tried to beat you. In the event that you turned out to be a good man, it was an effective way to help you paint a noble picture of me." He paused, panted a little, and then smiled ruefully. "And if we'd never seen each other again, it would have worked pretty well." 

"Why are you telling me this?" Duncan's voice was so hoarse, so hurt— the hurt was not new, but it seemed that way. 

"Please— let me finish. Hear me out." Methos took a deep breath, felt the sticky skulls hanging on his chest pry free from half-congealed, cooling blood, shifting to a new spot. He gazed levelly into Duncan's wounded, wondering eyes. 

"In the years since, I've manipulated you, and played games with you, and hurt you without even thinking about it. You've gotten in a hit or two of your own, Mac, but if you're looking for someone to blame for the pain between us, that someone should probably be me." 

Methos' breath had finally slowed, but now Duncan seemed to be the one having trouble getting enough air. "Methos, no-" 

"Almost done, Duncan; just stay with me a little bit longer." He said it tenderly, almost plaintively— it felt strange; he'd been gentle with Duncan before, yes; but he hadn't dared to show much compassion. "You asked me once why it was so difficult, why I couldn't just love you. The truth is, Duncan, that I can't _help_ loving you." 

His mouth burned with the words. Duncan's eyes were huge, questioning. Methos took a deep breath, and continued. "That gives you power over me." 

Warm earth-brown flickering hot, waiting, suspended... Methos sighed, surrendering. "I just felt that I had no choice but to push you away." 

He watched Duncan's throat work, as if he were struggling with something he'd rather not say. "I wanted to..." The Highlander swallowed, convulsively. "I had wished, after that first time, that I hadn't left the way that I did... I thought you-" 

"Shh, Duncan, please— I did everything I could to make sure that you wouldn't want to stay..." 

Duncan's head bowed forward, leaned hard against Methos' shoulder, heedless of blood. Methos nuzzled him. "Why-" Methos heard the shiver in Duncan's voice, realized that he was crying. "Why are you telling me this now?" 

Methos sighed. "It's another hard situation, Mac, only this is one I don't think I'm going to get out of. You're up against something that I can't help you with at all, but the one thing I _can_ do, the one thing I can try to take away from him is his power to bring you down by using lies about me— they're powerful lies, Mac, because they're woven between truths." He felt Duncan nod dejectedly against his shoulder, and turned to kiss the soft silk of hair. "Yes, MacLeod, I'm a murderer and a manipulator and a cruel, cunning thing— but I do love you, more than I ever thought I'd be able to love anyone. Whatever happens, whatever he makes you do— all I ask is that you know that one thing." 

He lowered his voice, speaking his last words warm into Duncan's hair. "I sometimes hate it that I carry your face branded deep into my heart, MacLeod, but it's there, whether I hate it or not." 

Duncan seized upon his mouth with a ravening hunger that sent a hot, brutal shock through his entire body. He slipped a little and melted under Duncan's tongue with a sharp, soft cry; so very glad to simply open and offer, a miracle of appetite being fed by the starving. His limbs burned with the thwarted need to reach out. 

"Methos, you don't know," the words were sobbed into his mouth; he could barely make them out; "I've wanted, I've needed to hear you say that— for so long..." 

Further revelations were, perforce, temporarily suspended. Methos saw the light fade, dying by slow squeezed inches under an oppressive pall of crimson. He pulled back fiercely only to return, staring with all the force of will at his disposal into harrowed brown eyes. "I love you with all my heart, Duncan MacLeod," he murmured fervently, "don't ever doubt it. I'm glad I told you." 

He raised his head as Duncan turned, and watched over Duncan's shoulder as Kronos strode toward them, as the grey mist recoiled away from him as if he burned. 

He did indeed look like he burned. The eyes were brilliant, flaming red, and his hair stirred and fluttered as if blown by an invisible hot wind. 

"You're a pitiful fool, MacLeod." The voice was too low to be Kronos', it was horrifying to hear that rough, dragging bass issuing from Kronos' cruelly curved mouth. "You've bought his lies, haven't you? You've got that look of the gleefully deluded about you." 

The demon came closer, and a flicker of light became a long blade in his hand. "This too, can be used, fool. His blood will be on your hands-" 

"If you touch him, you are dead." MacLeod's voice was booming, almost painfully loud. Methos gasped. "Fight me, if you want to, demon; but no more of these games!" 

Time seemed to drag, Methos saw Mac's lunge as if in slow motion. The demon engaged, without any of that eyeblink speed that had vanquished Methos. Blades struck and whirled, and Methos followed them through one sluggish, fearful heartbeat after another, followed them around as they circled until Kronos' back was to him, with Duncan opposite. 

Despite the slow, thick flood of time, Methos could not make his mouth move fast enough to call out a warning— no time to warn, no time to cry out, no time left to _scream_ in as the demon left a careful opening in his defense, just at the spot for Duncan to sweep through, sweep through both Kronos and Methos behind him, with no time to pull— 

There was no pulling back, but Duncan took the opening not for a sweep but a thrust, drove his glowing blade straight through Kronos' heart, through Methos' heart, through Methos, and into... _grey_... _fading_... _black_... 

Into the solid, unyielding, blank bland blessed normality of a hotel room wall. 

Methos sobbed at the perception of plaster against his naked back, more overwhelming to his senses than the terrible spear of pain that pinned him there. Kronos had wafted away like smoke during the shift, and all that was left to his dimming vision was the sight of MacLeod staring at him with the incredible purity of utter devotion, and those smooth, welcome, glorious walls. 

"The walls are back," he hiccuped, blood spilling from his mouth, "I'm glad. I hate grey." 

Duncan leaned toward him, careful around the blade, and kissed him as he died. 

* * *

Of all the times in all of his long, long existence that Methos had come back from the dead, this had to be, undoubtedly, his hands-down favorite. Usually recovery involved a harsh, gasping lurch of revival; complete with air burning through numb tissues and blood burning in cold veins. It was painful and shocking, but in Methos' opinion much better than the alternative, which was staying dead. 

Apparently, however, the customary negative effects could be significantly offset if you returned to life clean and warm in an aura of low, flickering light, wrapped in the dual embrace of a hot bath and a tender lover. Under these amazingly ideal conditions, coming to life was much more like waking up— a gentle, gradually increasing flood of awareness, a buzz of sleepy physical joy accompanied by a not-entirely— unpleasant stiffness that could have been caused by sleeping too long and too heavily in one position, or dying with a sword skewered through your heart. 

MacLeod was around and behind him, a nicely firm and delightfully slippery resting-place. His hands moved endlessly, cupping water and smoothing it over Methos' chest to warm him, while his lips nuzzled close to Methos' ear, whispering his name over and over. 

"Careful, Duncan— you'll spoil me, and then where will I be?" His voice was low and still a little weak, but Mac seemed to hear him just fine. 

"I'd like to spoil you, Methos." Hot arms closed around him, cradling. A muted chuckle tickled his ear. "I'd rather spoil you than be indulged by anyone else." 

"Mmm. You should stab me more often, if this is how you make up for it." 

"I'll keep it in mind." 

Quiet descended, broken only by the musical trickle of water that Duncan poured over him. Methos thought he might just be falling asleep, when Mac's voice pulled him to the surface again. 

"It's not over. Not yet." 

There was weariness in the words, soul-deep. Methos sighed. 

"I know. I don't know how to help you." 

Time passed, beats of silence in which Methos felt Duncan gathering himself. His own muscles tensed a bit in anticipation, but it was only a faint exertion— he was wiped out, too lethargic to do much of anything, no matter what fresh cataclysm was rushing at him. 

"Say... Tell me again, Methos." 

Methos crossed his arms over his chest and wrapped around Duncan's embrace, pulling them together almost to the point of pain. "I love you." 

"Ah..." 

A few moments of rocking, enfolded comfort, a noiseless hymn, and then Duncan let him go. 

"We should get out, Methos. I don't know about you, but I'm so wrinkled I'm starting to look my age." 

Gaining his feet was a long, arduous task, and the final result was only shaky at best. Methos yawned hugely and watched Duncan pull himself gracefully from the water, then blinked sleepily between the need to close his eyes and the need to memorize Duncan as he was— flushed, dripping, and nicely naked. Mac caught him looking, and laughed. 

"That's priceless, Methos— you look like you can't decide whether to pass out where you stand or leap on me. Very flattering." 

Methos yawned again, cavernously. "Can't help it— I'm dead on my feet, but you're unusually appealing when you're wet and hot and far more coordinated than I am." 

He swayed, and Duncan steadied him. Methos allowed himself to be guided slowly out of the bath, noticed with half-lidded eyes that Duncan dried himself with rough sweeps but eased the towel over Methos' form as if performing a sacrament, and noted with a distinct lack of surprise that somehow his body amassed enough blood to provide him with a rather stunning erection. It must have been hard work— it made him light— headed and fuzzy. 

"So don't keep me in suspense, Methos," Duncan murmured dryly, "who wins out— Rip Van Winkle, or Casanova?" 

Methos' jaw cracked in another sepulchral yawn. "Both," he replied when he could, leaning into Duncan's welcoming arms. "I'll just drift off, and you can fuck me blind while I do it. Yes?" 

Mac chuckled and took him by the chin, brought his nodding head up so that their eyes met. "You trying to take my ego down a peg or two, Methos? Or is this a challenge to see if an infant like myself is good enough to keep your attention engaged for the duration?" 

"Consider the gauntlet as having been hurled, Mac. I hope you're up to it." 

"Mmm. I'm not going to spring for the obvious joke. Just take it as read." 

Methos followed Duncan's lead into the bedroom, marveling. It couldn't possibly be this easy, could it? 

Apparently, it could. There was a companionship implied in their words to each other, a warmth that hadn't been there since before the Horsemen, but it was more, deeper than that old comfort. It was good— too good to last. He warned himself of that sternly, counseled himself to remember that it would take more than a rejected opportunity to kill each other and a desperate admission of love to counterbalance all the darkness that lay between them. 

But... But... but as Mac laid him down on the soft sheets and swarmed over him like a malnourished incubus; it became very difficult to heed the cautionary, sober tones of that voice. Duncan eager and desperate was a treasure too singular to waste, a rarity too sublime to be diluted with the bothersome trivialities of calculation. It might be too good to last, but it was also far, far too good to stop. 

With no preliminaries other than a few clinging, ravenous kisses that left Methos breathless, Duncan swung about over him and settled into a crouch, both hands squeezing and tugging at Methos' cock with a rushed, inexpert urgency that brought him hissing up off the sheets. Duncan slammed him flat. 

"Lick me." The rough command was unexpected, and therefore a pure erotic jolt. "But don't make me come. That's for later." 

Methos writhed a little, but managed to keep himself from asking exactly _how_ much later. He brought his arms up and pulled Duncan's hips down to his chest— how much later might be up to him, if he did well... He plunged in eagerly, obediently, gripping muscular buttocks as if they were necessary for his survival. His tongue flickered and delved, and Methos considered the battle half-won as Mac pressed back against him and uttered a raw, throaty groan. 

"Deeper, Methos... More-" 

Methos shuddered, delighted. _Something_ had finally convinced Duncan to take control, and whatever it was, Methos was grateful. He offered up his mouth gladly, and thrust his tongue as far as possible into Duncan's tight ass, withdrawing only to circle, nibble, and then plunge again. 

Duncan's rhythmic grunts of lust fractured into irregularity as his mouth closed around the tip of Methos' erection. A sound that was terrifyingly close to a scream reverberated from Methos' throat, and he rose up again, seeking, pushing, only to be shoved back down. 

Apparently, he was supposed to just lie there and take it. Undoubtedly, that was going to kill him. Duncan worked down his length with steadfast devotion, lack of finesse more than redeemed by zealous enthusiasm, and Methos lost himself in helpless, staccato cries until Duncan pulled cruelly away, thumbs fierce against his hips to keep him down. 

"Lick, Methos. Don't stop." A dark, terrible growl. 

Impossible. Flatly impossible, and yet Methos would do anything that rough, blunt voice asked of him. Even the impossible. 

He did the best he could, but it was a great hindrance to his creativity when Mac closed once more around him and began to suck him down. He found that struggling and lifting his hips only made Duncan squeeze him tighter and growl around his cock, so he did a bit of that, and tried to keep his tongue moving despite his constant moans. 

It was while he was lost deep in the haze of grappling, unsatisfied desire that a strange thought came to him, melancholy and yet oddly satisfying. Duncan was okay— not insane, not dead and not wishing he was, and no longer lacking in purpose. Methos had begun with a deep and burning resentment of Mac's dependence on him...but now that it was gone, he was shocked to find that he actually missed it, just a little. 

Duncan MacLeod would win his battle— not much question of that. It was inevitable, at least to Methos' mind. It was the emergence of the sun after an eclipse— as inevitable as that, and as poignant to him— to Methos, who had clandestinely grieved at such moments for as long as he could remember. It was one rare instance where his choices always seemed to haunt him, as the world brightened and birthed into a light he knew he could not share. He did not notice his own tears as he bucked under Duncan's tempered dominion. 

"Please..." he begged, just because it felt good to do so. 

Methos reached out, grasping, as Duncan pulled away, but his hands were captured quickly and pressed deep into the pillows above his head before they could find purchase on anything. 

"Please what, Methos?" Duncan looked wild; tumbled, animal hair and feral eyes. Methos gasped as his wrists were squeezed. "What?" 

"Anything-" his body arched— burned, hungering. "Anything you want, only please... Something..." 

Duncan abandoned him for a terrible moment, releasing his hands to grope at the bedside table for the oil, but then returned to feast on his lips, skipping off between kisses to lick unsuspected tears from his cheeks. "Open your legs." 

Methos did it, fervently, wantonly; drawing his thighs up against his trembling stomach. He cried out one plea, one hoarse affirmative, but Duncan's hand appeared suddenly over his mouth, silencing him. 

"No words, except to answer to me." 

Methos expressed both his frustration and rapture in one endless, guttural groan, lifted while Duncan shoved a pillow under his hips, and struggled to keep himself from grabbing. 

Duncan reared back onto his knees and looked at Methos as if he were a conquered victim, one hand absently massaging oil into his own tumid, ruddy erection. "Not falling asleep on me yet, are you, Methos?" 

That husky voice, composed and nearly insolent, whipped across his nerves and pulsed in his cock. "No, Duncan." 

And Duncan left him there, open and exposed and wanting, forbidden to speak and without any stimulation except through his ears and eyes, while he stroked himself close to completion. Methos quivered, tormented but unable to look away as Duncan shifted his thighs further apart and let his head fall back, pushing into his own hand and gasping with pleasure. Every flex and ripple of powerful hips lacerated Methos with unbridled envy, and when Duncan arched upwards and groaned under his own caresses Methos cried out, certain that the moment Duncan came on him he'd explode without any further inducement. 

The moment never came, however, and Methos backed away from the edge of release with a dizzy, disconsolate sigh. Duncan's head tilted forward, and their eyes caught and held. Methos bit his lip to keep his implorations inside where they belonged, wondering dimly if it would entice Duncan at all if he started to squirm. Probably not— MacLeod still looked savage and yet totally under control, an unusual but incredibly arousing combination. 

"You know what I want to hear, Methos. Say it again." Beautiful eyes, beautiful voice, so deep and compelling— 

"I love you." And at last, Duncan moved toward him, rising over him with the relentless implacability of a dark idol. 

"Again." His wrists were caught, held, trapped— //oh thank you...// 

"I love you..." Duncan was right _there_ , nudging against him, just the slightest most frustrating press, and Methos panted unstoppably after his words trailed away, arching, begging in the only way he could. 

But Duncan held back. "Mmm— You want me to fuck you, Methos?" 

" _Yes!_... Duncan, please-" 

A soft chuckle hit him like a slap, freezing him with sudden dismay. "Shh— don't break rules, Methos— not when you're doing so well." 

"Oh..." Methos subsided, shivering. 

"Good." Duncan kissed him deeply, sucking and nibbling at his bottom lip until Methos was ready to scream. "Methos?" 

"Uh... yesss..." 

"You can move yourself onto my cock now, just a little— not too much!" 

Oh yes. Oh no. Oh— how was he supposed to _stop_... Methos was sure that he'd never, ever taught Duncan this type of cruelty. This had to be one he'd thought up on his own... 

Methos wrapped his legs around Duncan's firm waist and rocked, working his hips as the pressure against him grew and then grew sweeter. Duncan remained motionless above him, his face a sculpted focus of concentration, now dewed with tiny drops of perspiration at his temples. Methos cried out in sheer, shocked pleasure as his unprepared body opened to Duncan's cock, and then he was faced with the hell of knowing that one firm pull of his legs would drive that exquisite, throbbing pain deep to where he wanted it, but he'd been told to wait— he had to wait... and he was about to go insane, already, with the waiting... 

"Good?" Duncan's voice trembled just a bit. 

"More— I need more-" 

Duncan actually had the nerve to pull back. "I didn't ask you if you needed more, Methos. I asked if it was good." 

"Ah— _Yes!_ Very good!" Methos sobbed once, hoarsely, felt limbs he knew to be his own nevertheless shuddering out of control. 

"Mmm." Duncan kissed his wet face; light, tickling kisses like tiny shocks. "You can take a little more now, Methos." 

Methos rocked again eagerly, his stomach muscles cramped with strain. He'd been fully breached, and pain had floated off to parts unknown, leaving only hunger. He moaned bitterly as he came to a stop— Christ, he was going to go down in history as the only person ever to be not-fucked to death... 

"You're hot, Methos," Duncan's eyes had fluttered closed, and for a brief moment Methos was satisfied— such sensual voluptuousness, to watch Mac enjoy him so. "Hot, and...tight." Duncan's breath drew in with a hiss, and Methos felt the Highlander hanging over him with barely-leashed violence, a tempest waiting to happen. He wished it would. 

"You can come when I do, Methos. Okay?" Mac's brows had drawn together. 

"Yes! Please-" 

"Do it, then, Methos. Make me come." 

His hands had numbed under Mac's fierce grip, but Methos could do without them— he bucked and slid, pulled and shivered and then screamed over Duncan's shoulder as he pushed himself down onto unbearable sweetness. Duncan was huge, filling and pervading him, and there was doubled joy in the knowledge that he worked for Mac's pleasure as well as his own. 

His hips lifted and dropped, churning; and sweat ran down the crack of his ass and stung blissfully, a small but priceless reminder that this was all real. 

Movement became automatic, something his body did the same way it drew in great heaving gasps of air, just another element that kept him alive. Methos was washed, lapped, laved in sensation— the scent of musk like something glowing warm; the sight of Duncan lost in him, perfectly lost and deeper into him than he'd ever been; sound that had melted to one fluctuating, endless moan carried like a chant between two entwined voices. Methos levitated on invisible waves of intensity, balanced carefully and suspended over a mindless abyss of pleasure, waiting for the word to be given. 

When Mac started to buck against him he almost lost it; all he could do was clench his teeth hard and demand that his body hold out, hold on... 

Duncan relinquished his quiescent control with shocking suddenness. Methos couldn't feel it when his wrists were released, but they must have been; because abruptly Mac's arms dug underneath and around him, grappling for purchase. 

"Come now," Duncan's breath was hot against his ear, "I want to feel you-" 

Strong arms tightened around him until he thought his ribs would splinter, held him thoroughly, perfectly still while Duncan pounded into him. The transition for Methos from active to passive was a deep, almost terrifying shock; sensual input that overwhelmed his scrupulously gauged balance with one raw, carnal stroke. He heaved once— uttered a groan that seemed to shake the bed— and then came; relying only on Duncan's strength and his own will to be sure that he wasn't really flying apart the way it felt like he was. 

"Methos— God... That's— so good-" Mac's words dissolved into a low, urgent cry. Methos echoed, chased, swallowed the sound as he captured Duncan's mouth, shuddering as his own pleasure was unbearably drawn out by the hot, fierce throbbing of Duncan pouring into him, pulsing into him, coming... 

And in the slowdown, in the cooling, flickering aftermath when they drew reluctantly, slowly, stickily apart into the separate components that made up two separate people, Methos was not at all surprised to find his face wet with renewed tears, and when Duncan gathered him close and whispered a sweet entreaty into his ear he said it again— I love you— each word cool and easy in his mouth, as honeyed as Duncan's kisses. 

* * *

//Methos,// 

He woke up alone, again. 

//Methos,// 

Hotel notepaper the only inhabitant of the other pillow. 

//Methos,// 

The only salutation. The last communication from a man he might never see again. 

//Methos, 

I know you'll probably be quite relieved to find me gone.// 

It was as far as he got, as much as he read before he crumpled the pages and thrust them carelessly into his duffel bag along with the rest of his things; his eyes dull as cloudy marbles, tight-lipped and silent and blind to everything as he walked calmly out of the room and never looked back. 

* * *

The pages are limp and creased now, fragile like love-letters from deep in the past; but their appearance of age is belied by the still-brilliant colors on the hotel's logo— these pages aren't more than a year old. They are well-read. 

Methos reads them more often than he likes to admit, even to himself. The text is so familiar to his eyes that it is no longer necessary to read. Just to look at the words is enough. 

_Methos,_

I know you'll probably be quite relieved to find me gone. It didn't take me too long to figure out what you did, or why you did it; it was the only way to give me the strength I needed to save us both. I actually expected you to pull away from me as soon as you came back and found the demon gone, but I guess I wanted to see how far you'd go. 

I'm watching you sleep now— you wouldn't believe how sweet you look when you're asleep. Funny, but I think I'll remember that more than anything else. 

You went all the way, Methos— you surprised the hell out of me. I kept waiting for you to hedge, or take control, or start to slip away from me, but you kept not doing it. 

That brings me to the sticking point here, which is that it occurred to me that perhaps there were more lies between us than I suspected— yes, I believe that you lied to me when you said you loved me, but I've also come to believe that you've lied to yourself if you think that you don't. For right now that's what I need to believe— I've got a lot of thinking and other things that I need to do, as you know, and I hope you don't mind that I've chosen to carry with me the belief that somewhere in that heart of yours you really do love me. 

I'm finding it very difficult to write this, imagining how you'll probably snicker over it when you wake up. But that's the problem— I don't know what you'll do. You're not exactly the world's most predictable guy. It's part of the problem, but of course it's part of the attraction, as well. 

This last time, these last few hours with you, it changed the way I see you, once again. I should probably just get used to that— it's happened often enough, God knows— but this situation was every bit as powerful as the first time I found out about the Horsemen, only it was an opposite experience. I was so warm with you, like for the first time in a very long time I was able to be your friend, and the first time ever that I felt good about being your lover. 

Well, of course it's always _felt_ good... physically, you're... well, you know what you are. But this was the first time I ever wanted you in a way that didn't feel wrong— and no, it's not because you're a man— oh hell, you can think that if you want to, I certainly can't stop you. 

The bottom line is, for me, that this is a really wonderful thing that I never would have wanted to miss, and it's also sad— more sad than I really want to talk about, actually. 

It's very strange, writing this way to you, and never knowing what state of mind you'll be in when you read it— hell, for all I know, maybe you actually fell in love with me while we were fucking like rabbits and the fact that I'm gone will cause you pain and suffering— you're laughing again, aren't you, Methos? I wish I could see it. 

Another thing that just 

Had to break off there. You reached out for me in your sleep, and I don't want you to wake and find me gone until I've finished this. You're a wonderful nuzzler, Methos, when you're asleep. 

Another thing that just occurred to me is that you actually succeeded with the whole reason you came after me in the first place— I'm not stuck inside my mind anymore, and I certainly don't want to die. I still have to find some way to deal with what I did; that's what I'm off to do now, if I can figure out anything to do besides pray for mercy on that poor child's soul. 

So you've performed the task you set out to complete, and you've hauled my ass out of the fire yet again. A fine job, Methos. Tell whoever employs you in these matters to give you a raise. 

It's hard not to be bitter, sometimes. Don't mind me, I'm just looking at the way you burrow into your pillow like a beautiful, demanding child, and I'm doing that bitter/maudlin bounce that most of us Immortals tend to master as the years go on. 

The ironic part, the part that I have to smile at even though I'd much rather not, is that now that I've had a chance to understand you a little, I have this weird, overwhelming certainty that I could deal with who you are— I mean, like in my life; and yet I've never been more sure that that's something that will never happen. It's got a funny feel to it, like all I had to do to keep you in my heart is give up on you forever. Irony. I hope you're getting a kick out of it. 

I have to go now, Methos. I have things to do and places to go, and I don't know when I'll be back. If I don't get back, please keep an eye on Joe and Amanda for me— I know you would anyway. 

You don't have to worry about me seeking you out, or asking you if everything that went on means nothing to you and all that melodramatic crap. As far as I'm concerned, this little journey into darkness and out again is something that never happened between us— and perhaps, after all, that's for the best. 

I'm going to kiss you good-bye now, Methos. I'm packed and ready and eager for the road, but first there's that one kiss, that last one, the one that has to count. I'm going to have to settle for your right cheek— it's the only part outside of the blankets, which you've stolen quite effectively, I might add— 

Whoops. No more. Good-bye, Methos. Keep well. 

Duncan 

* * *

Methos' eyes are dry as he finishes reading— the letter long ago lost all power to hurt him and has become a comfort, something he can turn to in the face of any one of the myriad disappointments or moments of pain that come with living, and especially with living long. 

As is his habit, after the pages have been folded along well-worn creases he touches the letter gently to his right cheek, just once— his eyes closed, shuttered to preserve inner mysteries; feeling himself somehow warmed, as one who stands in the sun after an unimaginable time spent in darkness. 

* * *

Mairead Triste   
Eclipse (Part 2 of Shades of Grey)   
Rating: NC-17   
Characters: DM, M, K   
Classification: Slash   
Comments: Sequel to Shades of Grey. Some violence and violent   
imagery. Graphic nonconsensual and consensual homosexual adult content.   
Summary: Post Archangel, twisted and dark stuff happens.   
Disclaimer: THIS IS NC-17 FOR GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT AND VIOLENCE: IF YOU DON'T LIKE THE DARKSIDE, GO NOW! The characters in this story are not mine. I am only borrowing them, and, contrary to all appearances, I mean no harm. No money changed hands. This material may not be copied or distributed without permission. Please do not link, publish or post this material without permission.   
Author's Note: I've never sequeled anything before, and, frankly, I wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been requested through feedback. This story is the sequel to Shades of Grey. If you haven't read that one, this one won't make sense. Of course, if you *have* read that one, this one still might not make sense, but at least we'll know it's all *my* fault. Preliminary market-testing of this story has indicated that it should be placed on the dark end of the scale, so consider yourself warned. There might possibly be a third and final part to this series, if I don't get lynched for this one.   
This story is lovingly dedicated to Z&n at House of Slack, for generous brilliance, giggles, and Damn the Man! Much thanks and gratitude to Killa and Bone for *incredible* editorial support and encouragement— it wouldn't have happened without them (but the mistakes & problems are *mine*, *mine* I tell you!) Extra bonus happy-thanks to all the readers who wrote to express enthusiasm for this dark world. You make it all worthwhile. [email removed]   
---


	3. Coming Back to Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post CAH/Rev, first time Duncan/Methos, flashback Methos/Kronos/Cassandra, pretty twisted, dark stuff, but not utterly hopeless.

  
**Shades of Grey III**

Coming Back to Life  
by Mairead Triste 

  
Prologue—Death 

_Can you see your days blighted by darkness?  
Is it true you beat your fists on the floor?   
Stuck in a world of isolation   
While the ivy grows over the door   
—Pink Floyd, 'Lost for Words'_

For whatever reason, the only place he felt truly comfortable this time around was in the cemeteries. As soon as the noise and clatter of the New Orleans traffic dropped away behind him, as soon as the spicy-rich intrusion of accents and aromas gave way to quiet birdsong and the slightly swampy-musty odor of replanted death, his head cleared and some indefinable weight lifted from his chest; leaving him free and calm to reflect on his own depression. 

It was a small thing, really; but nevertheless it bothered him. Four hundred years of living brought with it the inevitability of repeated experience, and an equally inevitable burden of self-knowledge. It wasn't anything he'd sought out, in this case, but—after four centuries of life, the predictability of how one would respond in any given situation was inescapable. 

And, until this last trip, New Orleans had been one of those things that comforted him with its predictability—the city had changed, yes; changed quite radically in the past century, yet somehow it still _felt_ the same, still remained intimately connected to the lusty and almost nauseating decadence that characterized the city, the people, the very land itself... 

In such places, in those few remaining pockets of America and Europe and the Middle East where the local spirit of the past had magically transcended the trappings and electronic sanitation of the present, Duncan MacLeod had always found himself uplifted. Comforted by the walking ghost of eternity as something bearable and not saturated with loss, he'd found that he could rely on such places to bolster any flagging determination born of fear or resentment or cold, creeping isolation. Every face, every voice, every building whispered to him that time was a friend to be treasured for the glimpses allowed into the miraculous—these things go on, MacLeod; and you can leave them behind and fight and love and do what burns within you without a thought for their continuance—but continue they will, to welcome you back unchanged when you next deposit the road-dust of centuries on their well-worn doorstep. 

It should have soothed him. It had always soothed him. 

But not now. 

Instead, he found himself struggling to meet the bare requirements of the business he'd come here to transact; running off at every opportunity to either sniff the fetid subtlety of the graveyards, or hide silent and lost in the brain-numbing escape of paperwork while locked in his bland hotel room. 

Duncan MacLeod—uneasy in his life. Uneasy with life. Light and sound and the hectic scratch of pen on paper as business wound its burdened way towards conclusion—these things chewed at him, fretted at the edges of the fabric of his being; an attrition he couldn't articulate, even to himself. 

The few times that he'd been asked if he was okay, he claimed a mild touch of fever. He _felt_ fevered—in the throng and crush of humanity that he assiduously yet unsuccessfully fled from, the heat and humidity brought with them an almost unbearable pall of sweat that failed to cool him in the slightest. He itched constantly in places that he couldn't scratch in public, as if there was some form of potent acid seeping from his pores rather than salt- water. Dense and heavy with perspiration and irritated misery, Duncan moved slowly through the round of days, knowing only that what he'd imagined, what solace he'd hoped to find by attending to this transaction in person and immersing himself in the eternal corruption of New Orleans, had eluded him. 

The demon was gone. Vanquished. His own personal demons were very much in evidence, however. And really, he didn't think, he'd never thought it would be this way. It was over; that year and more of hell—so why did he feel like _he_ was over? 

A day of hot, leprous rain finally brought one evening of coolness, one precious hiatus of subtropical balm that made him long for those few, fleeting days at the end of a Seacouver torrential spring, when the earth would go quietly mad with life around him; tugging seductively at him to bask, to indulge his sensual streak, to rut. The evening air through the one-inch allowance of his hotel room window drew him out, dragged him from his self-imposed paperwork exile into the jasmine-fragrant aura of sweetness that, for the moment, didn't weigh him down. 

The not-so-casual glances of interest he gathered as he strolled down the Boulevard pleased him in a wary and distant fashion—it was good to feel vital again, attractive and slipping close to the edges of the slow dance of flirtation/seduction that saturated the overripe air he breathed; yet there was a dim warning in the back of his mind that cautioned that the experience could be worse than empty, something that could drain him even further if he wasn't careful. Given the erratic flux of his energy and tolerance, it was impossible to say whether a night with an unfamiliar but willing body would improve or worsen his situation. 

He walked on aimlessly, willing to put that particular decision off until a concrete opportunity presented itself. Dark thoughts surfaced briefly, racing like time-lapse clouds across the skein of his mind, but they too were easily pushed away in this interval of coolness and comfort. He followed where his feet led. 

His steps halted as he approached an enormous open-air palazzo crowded with iron filigree tables and elegant couples; an atmosphere of moneyed ennui that still somehow managed to blend with the seductively raw beat of live music that issued from the dim restaurant beyond. It reached for him and he responded, a blood- deep itch of percussion that spoke in crude and limbic terms of sensual pleasure. This was the place. 

In that moment things were decided and Duncan's pulse sped accordingly—he was going to go in, yes; he was going to enter this dark and sybaritic place and from here select a companion for the night—a compliant stranger, an accommodating unknown. 

A man. 

And there it was; the thought that made his heart pound and his throat go dry and his head swim as if he'd inadvertently drunk absinthe—in each shutter- click blink of darkness behind his closed eyes he saw himself draped with lazy abandon beneath the hard-muscled leanness of a male lover; the ripe-plum tip of an erection in his hand, at his lips, sliding over the hollow of his groin— slow, hot love with a faceless man who could draw the poisoned thorn out of him and pierce him anew with eager and different flesh... 

Different—somebody different, it had to be; cocoa-cinnamon dark skinned handsomeness would do very nicely—and that certainly seemed possible, what with the profusion of such all around him. There was at least the illusion of freedom in thinking that, even if he had been dragged face-to-face with some of his own uneasy desires, he could at least indulge the vice with different shades of beauty. 

Rather than just the one. 

A man, a man; he wanted one in a way that stirred his limbs free from the restive unhappiness that had plagued him for a long, long time—the wanting woke him, shook him, forced his attention away from his miserable mind and onto the ready blade of his own body. Duncan stepped up to the palazzo and made his slow way towards the interior of the building, towards the bar and the music and the man who was about to give him enough new memories to replace the ones he couldn't bear to look at anymore, which in itself would make this entire trip worth every moment of discomfort, and then some. 

He intended to pause when he stepped into the dim space of the interior to allow his eyes to adjust, but even before the thought completed itself he stopped, as abruptly as if he'd hit a wall. 

Shocking, and entirely unwelcome in this place of overwrought lust he'd worked himself up to, Immortal presence cut across his nerves like a buzz saw over softwood. Jacket, sword, cell-phone—even as his eyes sought out the source of the emanations, his mind automatically catalogued his readiness to fight, a list of survival tools that sliced instantly loose into freefall darkness when it percolated into his brain that he was staring at Methos. 

Calm surprise—barely discernible in the dimness and over the distance of the crowded room that separated them—calm surprise on Methos' features, and nothing more. 

Duncan himself had no idea what emotions might be writ large or small on his own face—slack-jawed shock or numb impassivity; it was more than he could do to school his demeanor when the entire world had just slipped out from under him with scary speed. 

He thought he'd known, before entering this place, what he wanted. The first second of eye contact with Methos disclosed the fact that he hadn't had the vaguest idea of what the word 'want' really meant at all—like an alloy with no catalyst, like a recipe with no ingredients, he'd diagnosed himself as 'wanting' without any notion of the true nature of the illness. 

He knew, now, what that word meant. 

Words, words on a page—his last words, written with unthinkable bravado in the fresh-fucked satiation and despair of having Methos' scent and sweat soaked into his pores—what had he written? A sudden stab of terrible guilt suggested that he'd written enough to hurt, probably, or at least enough to annoy Methos that his toy had the gall to up and leave before the game had played itself out... 

_Oh, Methos_ his lips formed the words helplessly, silently. 

As if speaking that name had invoked some kind of sanction, his vacant body caught up with the stunned and spinning path traveled by his mind, and in one brutal instant he found his breath cut short, his knees weak, and his penis painfully erect, a divining rod urging him forward with inexorable force towards the place he needed to go. 

Methos looked different. Details disclosed themselves gradually as he grew ever closer—longer hair now, softly spiky yet carefully arranged, black clothes—a black _suit_ , narrow double-breasted Italian; playboy perfect down to the silken shimmer of a charcoal tie. 

Details—he couldn't stop fixing on details; the gaze of the lover is the sharpest gaze of all—and that in and of itself should be sufficient warning to stop staring but— 

But. 

A _tie_? Methos in a _tie_? 

But— 

Methos looked cold. Cold and hard and immeasurably beautiful, caught outside his accustomed dress like a strange bird molted into unexpected peacock finery; as exquisite and as haughty as that. Beautiful. And Duncan, with his defenses still down and reeling, found that there was no barring the thought that it was the edge that was attractive; the disdainful reserve in and of itself made beauty into something untouchable, impossible... 

And irresistible. 

And unfair—so unfair! How many different ways could he find this man compelling? How could he guard himself against it when every interaction brought someone new to light, someone he'd never expected and couldn't resist—not fair, Methos; you're too old and too pretty and too deep for me to ever touch the bottom, and the water all around is so very, very murky..... 

His stomach fell already, fluttering, before he was even halfway across the room. That last time between them had been precious, and now he was glad that he'd treasured it as well and as quietly as he had, because the composed aloofness in Methos' eyes informed him in no uncertain terms that they weren't about to pick up where they'd left off. He kept moving anyway. He had to. There was something here for him, something he'd been looking for and never even known it; and if Methos needed him to kneel on the floor in supplication before they could go off somewhere quiet and start getting tangled up, well; then that's what he'd do. 

His feet slowed as he approached. Pulled in so many directions at once it was a wonder he found the wherewithal to move at all—hunger, loose and raving inside him, fear and excitement braided so smoothly together as to be indistinguishable, anger, resentment, sadness—there was a war on; and it was contained in his skin. Skin which he could not feel, because Methos' buzz had sunk in and grabbed hold and numbed him with intensity. 

And what to say? 'I used to be normal before I met you'? 'I can't jerk off anymore without thinking of you'? 'What's a nice place like this doing around a guy like you'? 'Would you like a blowjob'? 'Do you still love me'? 

He supposed it didn't matter. Methos would probably say it didn't. 

There were two pairs of sunglasses discarded on the table. Two empty bottles of beer. Two glasses. His jaw clenched. 

"I almost didn't recognize you, MacLeod. With your hair gone you look like an insurance salesman." 

Antagonism. He could handle that—the man seated at the small table in front of him might _look_ different, but the voice and tone were comforting in their traditional hostility. He sank into one of the exquisitely uncomfortable iron chairs without being asked. "Do I? Well then—can I interest you in a policy?" It was stupid and trite, but safe enough, for the moment. 

It looked like stupid and trite was a wise choice after all, because Methos smiled a little, and with an abrupt sense of perforated reality Duncan could see the man behind the wall of affected indifference, someone he used to know wearing the costume of a stranger. It made his heart stutter in his chest. 

"What have you got that covers 'acts of God'?" 

He watched Methos take a long drink from a glass of dark amber liquid, mesmerized by the smooth motion of throat muscles rippling down towards the tidy knot of that unbelievable but indisputably real tie. Frustration and desire rose up to combine into an uneasy sense of angry lust, something strange and alien that nevertheless made his mouth water and made his hands shake with the need to reach out and tear Methos out of those ridiculous clothes. He cleared his throat softly. "Look, can we... can we go somewhere and talk, Methos?" 

Methos regarded him coolly, tongue tracing lips reflectively in a way that made Duncan shiver, just a little. "You want to talk? Sure you wouldn't rather just send me a letter—I've got a post-box here in town..." 

With staggered gradations of dismay, Duncan found that he had no answer for that, and subsequently that now he knew _exactly_ what was on his face—raw, unparalleled need, and enough hurt along with it to make him wince. He scrambled for control but there was nothing, no resources within him to battle the blatant truth of what had seized him. He needed this. Needed Methos. "Methos, please..." he said softly, and knew that he'd actually spoken only when he saw the words flicker home in the other man's eyes... 

"I lied to you, MacLeod." 

He couldn't ask the obvious question. Methos evidently wanted him in this terrible place of needing to know and fearing to ask, and so here he'd stay. A just punishment? The words 'just' and 'punishment' were horrifyingly disconnected from any real source of meaning when Methos was factored into any calculated equation. 

And Methos looked... sorry. Sorry and no longer self-satisfied, and that made his heart lurch worse than anything else had, because if Methos felt sorry for him then his transgressions were indeed grave enough to number him amongst the damned... 

"You don't look like an insurance salesman, Mac. You look like someone who's busy seeking death. Again. Still. I heard from Joe that you defeated the demon and had things back on track and I've been very happy for you, but—it's not any better, is it?" 

Duncan opened his mouth to answer, and was forestalled in his efforts by one pale raised hand. "I cannot help you, MacLeod; you know that. All that would happen is that I'd disappoint you and then you'd hate me. I'm busy here, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to assume the burden." 

Such cold words—cold, when things had been so warm between them for those few, priceless minutes of grace and understanding—Duncan couldn't see that ardent man anymore in the creature who sat across from him, not at all; and the horror of that icily ruthless equilibrium was matched only by the knowledge that he wanted it, still wanted him, still wanted— 

If the ancient and composed thing in the other chair felt any love for him at all, he was doing a damn fine job of concealing it. "It doesn't have to be that way," Duncan murmured throatily, focusing on the words, on the thought behind the words to distract from the palpable sting in his eyes, "you know that— we've done... we've been... it doesn't have to be—" 

"Cruelty between us is inevitable," Methos asserted quietly, overriding his words. Duncan flinched back as the deep need that had drawn him to this point cut off as abruptly as if some internal switch had been thrown, and then there was only he and Methos; two distinct and widely separated souls with nothing holding them together but a little misplaced sentiment born of illusion. Methos' eyes looked like frozen flints in the darkness, obsidian-hard. 

There was nothing more to say. Duncan nodded, his lips tight, actually relieved that, of everything snarled inside him right now, what had surfaced to the top of the tangled heap was a distant and stern resignation. It made it easier to rise, easier to walk away. He surprised himself by turning back before he left the room, and surprised himself further by a complete lack of external response when he saw a tall, slender, darkly handsome man carrying two bottles slide gracefully into the chair he'd vacated, smiling at Methos with fond affection, a smile Methos returned. Duncan did nothing. 

He saw nothing of the path his feet walked as he headed back to his hotel, nothing of the surroundings or the people—the night had lost the power of enchantment for him, had become only a blank void he walked through to keep himself away from where he never should have gone. His room welcomed him as such rooms always do, with a dull banality that even the colorful view from the windows couldn't enliven. He accepted it. He had work to do. He stared out the window anyway, putting off the moment, lost in an absence of thought. 

Seeking death? Evidently so. 

Too bad death was busy with somebody else. 

* * *

Coming Back To Life 

Part I: All Alone In The World 

_Where were you, when I was burned and broken?  
While the days slipped by, from my window watching   
And where were you, when I was hurt and I was helpless?   
Because the things you say, and the things you do surround me...   
  
—Pink Floyd, 'Coming Back to Life'_

"I couldn't stay, Joe. I couldn't handle watching Mac play house with Amanda any longer. I had to go." 

"Yeah, well; actually, this is more than a friendly check-in call. That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about." 

Up until now Methos had sounded sleepy but ebullient, but now Joe thought that the sudden silence on the other end of the line seemed weighted, an utter absence of the lackadaisical sarcasm that usually characterized these occasional transatlantic calls. He pressed his lips together firmly and closed his eyes, thinking of all the words that could be spoken by silence, cursing his own seeming helplessness to stop playing this role, stop traveling this path—and thinking also of soothing things; like the late hours when he'd finally be alone, free to take his choices and his thoughts and wrestle them into some coherent and therefore manageable form with pen and paper. "Methos?" 

"Um-hmm." Very circumspect. Noncommittal. 

Joe resisted the urge to sigh. Another uphill battle. "So you knew that they moved in together, after that O'Rourke thing?" 

"Yes. I believe I just mentioned that as being the major motivating factor behind my most recent trip. Since I've been back in Paris I've managed to put off dropping by, and I have no current plans to do so. Was there anything else? I'd like to go to bed now." 

Joe clenched his teeth together. He would have really liked to hang up—his palm around the slick plastic of the telephone itched to do it—but he needed to get this done, regardless of his own dismay at the pointlessness of it. He took a deep breath. "So you knew about their getting married?" 

That, at least, seemed to cut through Methos' curt unconcern. Joe heard a muffled 'whump', as if heavy bedclothes had just been pushed back. 

"What!?" it drilled into his ear and his eyes flew open, and he winced. "Mac and Amanda got _married_? When? Are you putting me on—" 

"No, Methos; they're not married. They got engaged. They didn't get married." He knew he should go on, just spill it, just cough it up before it choked him. "Mac asked her, and she said yes, and apparently they were too busy getting excited about the wedding to go ahead and talk about what the hell it meant to be married..." 

Joe's voice caught there, and despite his intentions, he couldn't continue. He closed his eyes again and was lost, back in a memory of the last time he'd seen Mac. Duncan had been happy, deep in the detritus of plans and caterers and location scouting and guest lists, but even then the happiness had possessed a slightly manic edge that had scared Joe badly—a house of cards, elaborate but terribly frail, waiting only for the first breeze to transform a careful composition into nothing more than a big old mess. And yet there hadn't been anything outwardly wrong, nothing to point at and blame for the suspected cracks in the foundation. Just fear. Fear that he couldn't find words for. 

Maybe he should have tried harder. He'd just headed home, and one of the circling, buzzing questions that wouldn't leave him alone now was whether it would have made any earthly difference if he'd stayed. 

"Amanda's not the monogamous type." Methos' soft voice spoke the words in a way that was almost, but not quite, a question. Joe blew out a breath he didn't know he was holding, his chest warm with relief at this unburdening that had been so simply understood. 

"No, she's not; and from what I understand, they didn't even talk about it. He assumed one way, and she assumed something else, and then that old lover of hers—that Philippe guy—hit town, and then the whole thing went to shit." 

"I see." 

"You _see_? That's all you've got to say?" It was wrong, to take his anger at this terrible situation out on Methos, but it was also irresistible. Methos' utter dispassion in the face of profound fuck-upitude always affected him this way, and God only knew his temper hadn't improved any over the years. "You don't even ask me what happened—for all you know those two idiots killed each other, and I'm calling you to tell you that you're all alone in the world—not that that would make a dent, would it, Methos? You..." 

He couldn't maintain it. It felt good but it was blowing in the wrong direction, and it was probably best that he stop cold before he said something he'd have to be sorry for later. 

"I doubt anyone's killed anyone, Joe. You'd have been much more overwrought at the beginning of this conversation, and I doubt that you would have engaged me in small talk if you were calling to tell me that I'm 'all alone in the world'." There was a quiet snicker, a sound that made Joe's temper flare for one last white-hot instant before it all drifted away on a wave of wry sorrow and he found himself actually smiling a little, sadly... 

"Yeah, right; like who of us isn't?" He sighed, closed his eyes again, and looked for a way to sum up all the pain that had a hold on him. This never, never should have happened. "Well, Amanda's fine, fucked up and guilty as hell but fine—at least she was the last time I heard from her. Mac didn't throw her out or anything, but after the initial screaming match he went quiet and wouldn't talk to her at all—she was on the phone with me about every three hours trying to figure out what to do, but after two days of it she woke up and found him gone, and that was it. Her Watcher told me that she's packed up and headed out. I don't know if she went looking for Mac, but somehow, I doubt it." 

"And I take it he hasn't shown up on your doorstep." All amusement had fallen away from Methos' words, replaced with a cautious wariness. 

"No." 

"And I bet you're calling to ask me to go find him." The statement couldn't have been any drier. 

"Yes." Dry was easy enough to match. 

"I see." 

"Methos, just think about it, okay? Mac hasn't been... he hasn't seemed right since... well, for a long time. I know you two don't exactly see eye to eye these days, but... just think about it, okay? Will you think about it?" Joe shivered a little, hoping that it could end here, that he wouldn't have to go into his own reasons for not hopping on a plane and doing his own dirty work. Madness—so much of it; too much over the past few years... 

"I'll think about it. I'll call you tomorrow." Joe couldn't hear the note of annoyance he'd hoped for, that magic indicator that Methos had resigned himself. Not committed, then. Not yet. 

"Thanks pal. Sorry if I kept you up late. Sleep tight, my friend." 

Methos sighed, so loudly that Joe fancied he could feel it. "Goodbye, Joe..." 

Random thoughts intruded then, and Joe wandered the pathways of his private fears; staring off into nowhere while he chewed pensively on his lower lip. He reflected, remembered; followed MacLeod through trials big and small, through connection and distance, through sanity and its howling, woeful opposite. The world broke people, sometimes; and that seemed to be the sad truth of it. 

Sometimes, the world just broke people. Not even Immortals were immune to _that_. 

Eventually he realized that he still clutched the telephone, and he pulled it away from his ear and hung up a little guiltily, vaguely disturbed at the image of himself unthinking and suspended, mesmerized by nothing more than dead air. 

* * *

Coming Back To Life 

Part II: Keepeth His Own Wounds Green 

_Lost in thought, and lost in time,  
While the seeds of life, and the seeds of change were planted   
Outside, the rain fell dark and slow   
While I pondered on this dangerous, but irresistible pastime._

In the end, Methos was relieved of the burden of choice—he didn't have to find Duncan. Duncan found him. 

He knew even before the knock sounded at his door—knew the moment Presence hit him as he sat in his darkened apartment, bereft of sleep in the wake of Joe's call. He found that this arrival didn't surprise him—he'd expected this, really; he just hadn't been quite aware that he did. 

He let MacLeod in silently. There seemed no comment necessary—Mac looked like hell, like whatever little sleep he'd gotten had been obtained someplace cold and wet and dirty—there were a few stray leaves tangled in his dripping hair, short as it was. Methos expected to smell alcohol, but there was only the scent of unwashed Highlander and a low, barely-perceptible electric odor that the more primitive centers of his brain interpreted as unspent rage. 

Without a word Duncan went straight to the couch and slumped onto it. Methos clamped down on the sudden urge to go to him, to speak to him—first things first. He went to the phone, punched buttons automatically, and focused on the slow tide of his breathing to keep the task at hand clear—he needed to keep his voice calm and reasonable; for Joe, for Mac, but most importantly for himself. Calm and reasonable. 

He closed his eyes, listened to the lucid hum of an overseas connection. He heard a subtle click, and then one solitary ring as his connection went through- - and then there was nothing in his ear but silence. His eyes flashed open on Duncan, too damn close for comfort and one grubby hand on the cutoff button. He frowned. 

"MacLeod, get your hand off the phone. I have to call Joe and tell him that you're okay." 

Duncan's eyes were huge and solemn. Reminiscent of so many moments, so many little spills of heat and darkness between them—Methos bit his lip to fend off a shiver. 

"I'm not okay, Methos." 

He didn't even get a chance to put the phone down. 

* * *

"You're so fucking sure of yourself, so sure that—what was it?—cruelty between us is inevitable..." 

Methos gasped, but uttered no other response as the sweatpants he wore were yanked roughly down around his knees. Duncan's words were muffled against the back of his neck, hot and hateful words in the right place—blood humming beneath a vulnerable surface on both sides. It hurt to listen but he did it anyway—the other alternative was speech, and he was terrified in this singular moment of what might come out of his mouth if he opened it. It would pass. In the meantime, he offered no resistance. 

"That—'get off your high horse, MacLeod', 'stop pretending to be a saint, MacLeod'—oh Jesus—Methos, you don't know, you... don't know—you said I can't survive any other way and so you win, Methos—Fuck—You win and here I am and... you better not move—Don't move! Don't you fucking move a single fucking inch..." 

The dizziness that had descended on him in the whirling instant when Mac spun him to face the wall lingered, became a floating distraction from the hard hands that pulled demandingly at his body. He considered the dynamic dreamily, pondering slowly over the fact that once upon a time the knowledge that Mac was currently carving himself to pieces inside would have carried a certain spark, would have lent a jaunty edge to budding arousal; now it only seemed to sadden him. Too bad. Getting old was a real bitch sometimes. 

He did allow a low groan when Duncan pierced him, saliva-slick and so damn _huge_ in his ass that suddenly he didn't care anymore about keeping himself distant from this, keeping his head above water so that he could be there to catch the Highlander when the inevitable fall happened. 

"Is this what you wanted, Methos? Is this fucking _sick_ enough for you.....?" The growled words trailed away to a series of grunts, and Methos loosed a gasp of fulfillment that he would have really rather hung onto—but he couldn't; he couldn't hang onto anything except the cold plaster under his cheek, blissfully solid surface to prop against so that he could shove back _hard_ and take it, take it, take it again. 

Lost as he was, surrendered however unwisely to the flesh that brutally and exquisitely fucked him so hard it felt like his bones might punch through the wall; when the moment came and Duncan's thrusts faltered and the furious, guttural noises drained abruptly into harsh, wracked sobs he was there, surfacing out of the vortex of his own pain and lust to hold firmly to the arms that circled round him. It released him from something, some threat he'd built between them, and when Mac slipped out and away he found voice for his sighs of loss, found that it was easier than he'd imagined to turn and take, to pull and to hold. 

He struggled for breath while he held Duncan tightly, chafing and tangled with his pants around his ankles as he tried to separate out the twinned varieties of need that fate had bundled into his arms. His erection had nowhere to go except to nestle gently against hot, firm skin; and that didn't help much. 

"Okay—it's okay..." Cold, wet hair whipped him, a result of frenzied negation. "Yes." He pulled in another deep breath and tightened his hold. "You don't have to do that to make me love you, Mac—" 

The wail that cut him off was terribly familiar—that bottoming-out sound that Duncan produced whenever the blade of comprehension cut too deeply... Methos almost reeled with dismayed awareness of how well he'd come to know this man, through so few moments of connection. He'd been afraid, and he continued to be afraid, and all of that had a very good reason behind it. 

"One thing... tell me one thing," he whispered into the curve of the nearest ear. As if the lower timbre of his voice required silence Duncan quieted, sobs hitching off quickly to low, panting gasps. 

"Wha... what?" 

Methos sipped the air, and leaned in close to nuzzle warm against damp, tangled curls. "Are you done punishing me?" 

"Oh... God..." Duncan went rigid in his arms, pressed up close and _squeezed_ him against the wall until Methos didn't know whether he was about to pass out or come all over the solid stomach that flattened him. Perhaps both, in any given order, he thought dimly. 

"No—and—I'm sorry, Methos, but—" One final, soft sob. "No." 

Methos offered what solace he could. He found himself rocking the other man, cradling him gently to shelter in the face of a storm that neither one of them could stand against. "It's okay, Mac," he murmured, "you do what you have to." 

"I'm..." Just a shudder, just a twisting, bone-deep shudder in his arms told him everything he needed to know. 

"I know," he whispered, "but you're angry, too. It's reason enough." 

Duncan clutched him fiercely, held to him like the tides themselves were going to pull him away. "You don't know—I can't." 

Cold, cold rush in his ears as his eyes flinched down to darkness. Still. Damn the man for this despicable weakness! What the hell had he even come here for... 

Methos drew in a deep breath, pulling scattered energies inward. Calm and reasonable. Right. He kept his voice soft. "Just get it out, Mac. It's time. We need to get this thing done—" 

"No! Methos—" Clutching arms became a struggle as Duncan fought hard to get away, the panicked fury flight of an animal evading the jaws of a predator. The predator in him. 

Methos let go. Let emptiness and chill fill up the vacant places. Watched dispassionately as Duncan leaned heavily on a nearby chair, turned away and closed to him—and broken; unwilling to take the necessary step, the last step. Very well. 

He drew up and retied his pants without looking away, storing up animosity for the coming challenge. "Go take a shower." It was an incredible relief to issue the command, to vent even a little of his own anger in the hard tone of his voice. 

Duncan turned to him abruptly, that strange and despicable air of brokenness giving way rapidly to wary tension. "What?" 

Methos rolled his eyes. "You heard me, MacLeod. I told you to go shower—not that that back-alley scent of yours isn't delightful in its own sleazy kind of way, but I prefer to take you clean, if you don't mind." 

Duncan's mouth worked, but no sounds were forthcoming. Suddenly his eyes lowered to the floor—a chastened child, daring rebellion—and he took one step, one single step towards the door. 

"If you're waiting for me to stop you, you're about to be sadly disappointed," Methos spoke slowly, with calm savagery. "You know what you want, Mac; and you know what you came here for—" 

"Methos," Duncan interrupted, his voice low and desperate, and his eyes rose from the floor flickering with panic. "You don't understand! I just..... it's choking me, Methos; it's _choking_ me—I keep trying to deal with everything and figure out what the hell it is that I need to do, but....." he gulped air convulsively, "I'm choking on it." 

Methos reached out, let himself cup that suffering, miserable face for a moment. "It's just the past, Mac," he said steadily, "and even at your age, it can be a lot to swallow." 

Dark eyes, dense and unhappy and frightened. Methos waited, knowing that there was really no more to be said. Just choices to be made. 

When Duncan was out of sight, walking with lowered head and measured, reluctant steps towards the bathroom, Methos allowed himself a smile. 

* * *

He saved Duncan the burden of any further pretense—by the time Mac emerged from the bathroom Methos had stretched himself out naked in the middle of the bed, legs crossed at the ankle and his hands behind his head, and was studying the ceiling as if it held the answers to the mysteries of the cosmos. He was indisputably and deliberately not aroused, and betrayed no awareness of the man shifting with restless discomfiture next to the bed. Peripheral vision was sufficient to disclose Mac's nudity, and his erection. 

"Methos..." 

Methos just waited, absorbed by that ceiling. 

"Methos, I... what are..." 

"I'm not really in the mood to make it easy on you, MacLeod. I could, I know—I could start hurting you, get you to that place that you want so desperately to be—but I think you'll be better off if you have to work for it." 

Duncan's weight swayed the bed abruptly as he crumpled, as if he'd lost the ability to stand rather than chosen to sit. "Why—why do you always..... oh hell." 

Methos chuckled; amusement bubbling through him like scattered sparks. "Because it _is_ about you, Highlander. I said it before—you know why you're here, and you know what you want." 

"I know... I don't..." 

Methos moved his tongue thoughtfully around the sharp, pricking edge of one of his canine teeth. He said nothing. 

He heard a low, precarious growl, one single sound pure and clear and isolated in the symphony and cacophony of all the words that had passed between them; and knew it intrinsically for the turning point that it was. It iced him with goosebumps for a moment, but then a warm limp weight settled on his crossed legs, and Methos found all the heat he needed as soft melting incandescence sucked him in. 

"A good start," he said quietly, "just get your mouth all the way down and then don't move—let it grow inside you, MacLeod—I'm sure the metaphor won't be lost on you, clever as you are." 

He kept himself utterly still, abandoned physical sensation in favor of sound, closed his eyes at last and listened to the divergent noises of want and fear and vehemence that Duncan made as his mouth and throat were slowly filled. He could feel the Highlander shaking. 

"Take it—that's right. Displacement is a simple thing, really—you need something to choke on besides your past, and I'm happy to lend you my cock for the experiment—after all, what are friends for? Make yourself at home, Duncan." 

The bed trembled. Methos remained motionless. Duncan's strokes on him were short and savage, raising an inch at most before sinking down fast and hard. Such need, such great, uprooted hunger; desperation distilled down to its very essence. Methos maintained his distance, kept himself aloof from the hot wet pressure around his shaft and just listened to the moist sounds of torment, waiting... 

Duncan rose up off him, gasping, and Methos felt hot tears splash the sensitive skin near his hip. He shivered. 

"It's not enough, Methos; it's... not right..." 

He sat up. "Of course not. If that was what you needed, you could have gotten it anywhere." 

Duncan flinched away from him, but Methos followed through and caught him, brought shivering limbs and damp soft skin close into his chest, and held on. Methos relished the moment of quiet surrender, trying not to think at all about what he did, what he risked with these words, these truths. 

"Mac—you haven't even been able to string a coherent sentence together since you got here." Duncan drew in a sharp breath and became restless in his grip, but Methos insisted. "We both know what's wrong. You can talk it out, or we can fuck it out, but as long as you keep yourself on that quaint little rack of indecision you've trussed yourself to, you're not going to be able to do anything except make it worse—" 

"Methos, I—" 

" _Don't_ say 'I can't', Highlander," Methos muttered darkly, "I swear if I hear that out of you one more time I'm going to... oh hell—" 

He pushed Duncan from him roughly, got himself off the bed and away before things became irreparable. Kitchen—icebox—bottle—finally... He stood in front of the open refrigerator, drinking methodically, savoring the oddly relieving discomfort of chilled air on his naked flesh. Kicking Mac out presented too many difficulties, both physical and emotional, so he'd have to leave himself. A hotel, perhaps even splurge for a night— 

Behind him, from the other room, the lights went out. 

"Methos." 

There was a force there, a weight—something dark and dangerous that zipped up his spine like electricity. He looked at his forearm, resting idly on top of the refrigerator door, noticing even in the very faint light that all the hairs on his arm stood on end. Excitement rose, dreadful and yet compelling in his throat, and he had to pause before he answered to allow it to subside. 

"What?" He let it snap out. 

"Come here." 

That showed some promise. His cock twitched. 

He put the bottle on the counter and negligently swung the refrigerator door closed. 

Duncan was only a shape in the darkness, outlined in faint relief—the shape of man; always and ever a ruling influence in his blood. Methos had to get very close to see the spark of resolve in the wide eyes. He didn't mind. He'd felt it from across the room. 

Duncan took his hand, a shockingly hot touch after the icy caress of the beer bottle, and lifted it. Methos felt his fingers buried in silk as his hand was pressed to Mac's head, and he drew in a breath Duncan clamped down, forcing his fingers into a relentless grip. Three silent seconds later, Methos was painfully, achingly hard. 

"Are you afraid?" Gift horses and all that, but—he had to ask. 

"Yes." The blunt, raw sound struck Methos like a blow—one he'd been waiting for. He heard his own heartbeat strong in his ears, speeding; and at the moment, he had no words. 

One last squeeze, and Duncan's touch drifted away as if it had never been... The dark head fell heavily back into his hand; given, surrendered, so beautifully... 

"Do it." At once a command and a plea—when had Mac learned to master such subtleties? 

Methos didn't know, but he knew what he liked. 

"My pleasure, Highlander." 

And wasn't that the truth? 

* * *

Duncan fought him fiercely; scratching, clawing and biting like he'd never been civilized. It made Methos work extremely hard for every minor victory, it made Methos bleed in several places, and it made Methos very happy. Every part of him pulsed with something that was suspiciously close to rapture, sliding sweat-wet and grunting over and over Duncan's struggling body until he was glazed with fluids and intoxicated with the sweet ache of conquest. 

The Highlander resisted with brute strength, but when Methos found himself flat on his back he made use of it, reaching around to slap a stunning blow on one muscular buttock. Duncan gasped and ground against him, and Methos had to bite his own tongue in an effort to ignore the pleasure that lay in wait between those slick, straining thighs. Ignore it he did, however; and with one violent wrench he was free and on his knees, one hand flat on Duncan's back while the other rained down palm-bruising calamity. 

A new sound intruded where before there had been only groans and shrieks and muffled curses—Methos heard Duncan laughing with him, both of them shaking with it—and it was all he could do to not let it weaken his arm... He kept on, at once grim and gleeful, spanking Duncan until helpless laughter melted into helpless tears (his own eyes were wet but he never noticed, only blinked hard and stared mesmerized at the man squirming beneath him), and on further until wails of pain became an endless, husky lamentation of lust. His arm had gone utterly numb, but it had its orders and it performed without dereliction, and Methos leaned forward, inched closer and closer to that temptingly open mouth. 

He kissed it, tasted the deep, bitter edge of pain and longing. His hand stopped. 

"One more," Duncan whispered into his mouth, writhing under his hand, "just one more, Methos..." 

"Shh..." He kissed sweat away from that furled brow, "I won't do it, Duncan. One more and it would all be over, and I do so love seeing you like this..." 

Duncan whimpered and rubbed more frantically against the sheets, twisting... Methos moved closer, insinuated himself by degrees under that overheated and urgent body until he had the Highlander tight in his arms. "If you want lubrication you'd better see to it quickly," he growled, "because I want to be inside you within thirty seconds, and I don't much care how it happens." 

Duncan rose up over him, swaying on his knees. Methos got one enticing sniff of spicy masculine arousal as Mac made a languid grab for the bedside table, burying Methos' head in his armpit on the way; and then there was a quiet 'flick', and then a truly extraordinary sensation as Duncan doused his entire groin in half a bottle of sandalwood oil. 

"Oh, you're right out of it, MacLeod, no question," Methos said blandly, gathering the other man close, shaking his head ruefully even as his hands slid lower, further; smoothing sweat-slicked muscles on the way to silken, fiery hot skin. Duncan uttered a sharp cry when Methos' hands stroked over his buttocks— one wild head-toss above him and then Duncan was _there_ , right where Methos needed him to be, sinking down on him, _screwing_ him to the bed with the weight of his body. 

Close, soft cries in the darkness, and Methos couldn't stop touching, reaching; avidly watching half-glimpsed shadows of pain and pleasure chasing with flickering lightspeed intensity over that beautiful face. He felt the struggle that Duncan engaged in with his own body; heard the reticence and panic and determination that echoed in the twitches of flesh that tried so hard to encompass him. The odd variety of compassion that Mac seemed to awaken in him so effortlessly guided his hands up, up long muscular thighs to the opportune grasp of hip; muscle and bone and satin welcoming the clutch of his fingers as he sank in and pulled down hard. 

Duncan shrieked, a high, ululating sound that stabbed Methos deep in his belly, unlocked the reliquary where he hoarded the darker flavors of lust... Methos growled and arched upwards, returning wound for wound as he bore down and forced his way through, battered through every auspice of resistance until thrusting was utterly impossible—to thrust he'd have to pull back, let go, and no conceivable reward of friction could supplant the sensation of tight wide-spread flesh entirely transfixed upon him. 

"Don't—don't—don't..." hot in his ear. Tight on his cock. 

"I'm not stopping—" 

"Don't make me _come_ , Methos! Not—please, not _yet_..." 

The words hit against him with tangible impact: on his skin, deep in his groin; taking over his body like a hypnotic command. " _Yes_ ," he hissed, following where his hips led, lifting with all his strength into the dark shape writhing over him, bucking, still fighting, praises be, even now..... 

"No—I want—wait—" 

All Methos could manage was a desperate grunt, rocking soul-deep in heat, grinding... 

"No—ohhh... _fuck_..." Despair and ecstasy at once, and Methos _burned_ with power when Duncan pumped out onto his stomach, satisfaction stoked to the point where he had the strength not to follow along, not to give in to hot squeezing temptation pulsing around him—he had this capability, this control; what more could he ever possibly need? 

Methos shivered as if something had seized and shaken him. Oh, there were needs, all right—all kinds of needs. Methos held Duncan close until every last quiver and flutter died away, until the last strangled curse trailed off into a quiet whimper. 

"Hurts?" Methos was panting so hard he could barely get the word out. 

"Yes." A drop of moisture (sweat? a tear?) splashed lightly on Methos' cheek, tingling there, distinct and priceless. 

"Will you take it?" Spoken softly and low, and Methos held on, held firm to the delicious weight in his arms. 

"Oh yes." 

Stabbed again—so deep, so deep! Methos gasped with pain that wasn't supposed to be his and closed his eyes tight. Duncan moved on him, groaning, shuddering; and Methos' hands flew without thought to touch him, place the naked skin of his hands on this proof of sacrifice, touch to make it real, to make it bearable, touch to find a way to encompass the bubble of suffering he'd called up between them. 

Duncan worked against him for a long, dizzying time, fighting no longer, apparently gone now to someplace very far away, except... Except, he was right here: so _present_ , so _vital_ —every ember of pain glowing in his face, all that pain and hard again anyway, hard and needful. Methos made an offering of what strength he had left to hold and support him, a body abandoned utterly except for restless, churning movement and an anguished glitter beautiful in dark eyes. He saw Duncan's lips moving silently; a mute and incoherent prayer until Methos touched there, rubbed his thumb slow and smooth over that lower lip, releasing sound as if it had been trapped within. 

"Please come please come—Methos please I need—I need you now..." in and out, inhale and exhale Duncan repeated the same words, the same supplication, at once soft and urgent, the awed and passionate orison of a believer. 

Methos curled up helplessly, crushed their bodies together and then forced himself still, slipping a hand between them to gather up the saturation of oil and semen. His strokes on Duncan's rigid shaft were the only movement, the only motion, the only stimulation he could stand. So wet—so fucking wet and hot and hard and Duncan _groaned_ over him, unmoving except to loose a dark and deplorable sound of agony and pleasure that Methos felt in every cell of his body. Methos held tight, closed his eyes, and pressed his burning face deep into the damp hollow of Duncan's throat as he let it all go, throbbing hard into the place that trembled to receive him. His own faint and choking cries went unheard over Duncan's sobs of release, which were loud and unrestrained and wonderfully, wonderfully free; an unexpected liberty that only made Methos hold him tighter. 

* * *

Methos fell asleep in the shower, propped against the tiles insensate while Duncan washed his back. Duncan fell asleep some minutes later, sitting up against the headboard of the bed, waiting for Methos to bring out clean sheets. They goaded each other drowsily, jibes robbed of any marginal efficiency by the punctuation of huge yawns. When at last (at last!) Methos found himself settled in a clean bed with Duncan entwined all around him, it was all he could do to get out one last coherent thought. 

"Mac?" 

"Mmm?" 

Methos took one of Duncan's hands, brought it down and tucked it firmly between his thighs, trapping it. "If I wake up in the morning and you're gone, I just want you to know that I'll hunt you down and kill you." 

A moment of silence, impossible to interpret. That could be the heavy pause of guilt for actions past, or the unthinkable pause of dismay for actions imminent. He knew he should turn, should at least roll back and read what answers he could find in Duncan's face, but he couldn't make himself do it—his eyes snapped closed even at the thought. 

A soft sigh from behind, then a tender kiss on the back of his neck. "No fear, Methos. Go to sleep." 

And of course _now_ he didn't _want_ to sleep. He wanted, needed, to spend some time with his thoughts; to canvass the ground they'd traveled together tonight, to prepare himself with his usual consummate application for any and all possibilities. Moreover, he wanted to make sure that this time didn't pass unappreciated—the gift of Duncan MacLeod heavy and sated in sleep was a rare enough treasure to make any voluntary unconsciousness seem wasteful—but his eyes were so tired, and his body so weighted with voluptuous lethargy that... 

.....In the end... 

.....he had to just... 

.....let it go. 

* * *

Coming Back To Life 

Part III: Gifts and Curses Lightly Given 

_I took a heavenly ride through our silence,  
I knew the waiting had begun,   
And I headed straight... into the shining sun._

And wouldn't you know it, as if the difficulty between them was a pendulum that rebuffed all efforts at balance, Methos awakened to the sight of Duncan staring raptly down at him, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get up and go away. 

He dismissed the urge as ridiculous—yes, he had his fears, alright; but still- - last night had been such a victory, such fulfillment of the dark promise that their animal selves sparked off each other, and now he wanted to... what, hide? Ridiculous—he was whole, he was free; all shields and boundaries firmly in place despite the killing intimacy of what had happened. There was no threat here, no matter what alarms might be going off—no threat, not a threat, it didn't matter if his skin was crawling because it was just an evanescent reversal born of the surprise of having Mac awake and here and staring at him like an amorous romance-novel hero right before the fade to bad metaphors about crashing waves... 

"Good morning." It seemed as valid an opening as any—it was certainly morning, (and when was he going to learn to close those blinds the right way?) and it was obviously good, because there was freshly showered Highlander weighting down the other pillow rather than a note. 

"Methos." Not an opening, not a bid for attention—evidently Mac just had some sudden need to say his name. Methos nodded. 

There was no further elaboration. Methos bore the silence stoically for a few minutes—at any moment he could take action if he so chose; could rise up and seize command of the situation with just a cruel word or two. He went looking for the right words, just to have them ready if they were needed, but the words that occurred to him to say in this moment of realization and connection were _not_ what he'd had in mind... Something else—say something _else_... 

"Do you want breakfast?" He made the offer automatically, and only belatedly realized that there really wasn't much in the house that could be manipulated into actual breakfast components. 

"No." 

Duncan licked his lips slowly, an unconscious touch of lewdness that brought up a few other words that might be appropriate. Methos smiled and moved closer, and slid his hand smoothly and possessively up one bare, furred thigh. "Do you want to have another go?" That was more like it—abruptly he was glad that he'd taken the time to shower last night— 

Duncan returned the smile, but his hand covered Methos' and held it, stilling all movement. "No." 

Methos blinked. "No? What—you have something else in mind then, MacLeod?" 

Duncan tangled fingers with his own, brought his hand up from under the warmth of the covers, kissed his palm. "Yes. I'm ready to finish punishing you now, Methos." 

Oh. So _that's_ what that look was all about. Methos chastised himself silently for getting caught up in such ridiculous fears—slap and tickle and a little outlet of rage, that's all; both body and mind were ready and willing, and it would be so very nice to see what Duncan had up his sleeve... 

"It's about damn time, Highlander." Methos stretched luxuriously, then forced himself away from Duncan's eyes to glance around, scratching his head idly. "Is there anything you need—accessories, a paddle—" he smiled off into the distance, smug. "Maybe a knife?" He kept the narrow balance between derision and a formal and courteous offer easily. "Whatever you're inclined to, let me know and I'll see what I can do. You've got a lot to work through here, after all—" 

His words drained to sudden silence as Duncan captured his face and pulled him back, now nose-to-nose and the whole world defined by dark, solemn eyes, looking _into_ him—bright, blazing, brilliant with tears, such compassionate tears... something caught in his throat and he choked, quietly. 

"Oh, Methos—" Duncan's voice captivated him—the tone was sorrowful but not sorry, not the tone of a man apologizing in advance for getting pushy—it was more than that, something just a little frightening... "You're not half the monster you think you are." 

Fear on a whole new level. Amazing. 

He swallowed firmly. It would pass. 

It had better. 

* * *

Methos held on until it felt like his choices were limited to two: speak, or die. "MacLeod," he heard the strain in his own voice and hated it, but the words had to be said. "You have very strange ideas about how punishment works." 

Duncan had burned him with a shimmer-haze of slow kisses, stroked him with luxurious, lascivious devotion, and then climbed on top of him and proceeded to goad him towards insanity with a horrifying gentleness that made his eyes sting and his breath catch short in his throat. 

Duncan pulled away a little, and Methos' ear went cold with the absence of the hot wet tongue that had been teasing out secrets there. "Can't help it, Methos," oh—that dark voice wanted him, was low and growly with wanting, so lovely; "you're too damn warped for any of the more traditional methods to work—" 

As if to test the veracity of his own words Duncan grappled with him forcefully for a moment, went from teasing to taking with only one brief pause to swipe the plentiful sweat from his chest—and then Methos was crammed full, curling and shivering with the deep ecstatic pain that throbbed through every nerve. He didn't want to go with it—this wasn't what he'd had in mind, after all, and his only real refuge lay in ennui—but it took him anyway, and he uttered a cry that ravaged his throat. Not hard enough, not hurtful enough, not anywhere near enough to constitute adequate retribution but suddenly he knew that one thrust, one blunt stab of that cock sunk deep in his ass would spill him right over the edge... 

But no thrust was forthcoming. Duncan just held him spitted, only trembling faintly as the Highlander lowered, lowered; came down onto him like a silken sensual dream. "What good would it do to punish you like that?" The words echoed, spoken into the hollow of his open, gasping mouth. "You'd just enjoy it." 

"We could—god, Duncan, _please_!—pretend... that I hate it..." He didn't know what he was saying. He didn't care. 

"Shut up, Methos," Duncan whispered sweetly into his ear, "I know what I'm doing." 

Abruptly bereft when Duncan pulled out of him, Methos didn't have time to decide whether he was relieved or dismayed before he was lovingly, skillfully oiled and then entered again with consummate gentleness—oh yes, Mac knew what he was doing, all right; somewhere along the line Duncan MacLeod had figured out _exactly_ what the pattern of true cruelty was... and shouldn't that make him happy? Shouldn't that be a triumph of sorts rather than something that made him shake uncontrollably? 

Movement began slow, slow and easy and so small that it crept upon him imperceptibly; rocked sensation past his senses and down deep into someplace he hadn't wanted it to go. Duncan's hand rested on his chest, pressed against his fluttering, twisting heart—gentle, so gentle and terrible—scraping some old scarred inner wound to fresh blood while taking him so softly that it might just rip him apart. 

"My curse," the words spoken through feather kisses at his hairline that made him twitch, "I gift you with it, Methos." 

"No..." (god no—not this, don't do this to me I can't bear it...) 

"Oh yes." Touch, touch, satin-soft kisses of abomination on his eyelids that made him shiver; "On those cold nights—you know the cold, Methos, and what it's waiting for—and when that cold is all around you, when you're more alone than you've ever been—" 

"No!" He could say it—he couldn't _do_ anything about it without risking surrender to the pain that threatened to shatter him, but he could say it. 

"You'll remember this. Remember. Remember this until the day you die, Methos. Yes." 

That hand on his chest—it might have burrowed inside his flesh and under bone for all the pain it caused him—and he reached to pull it off but ended up trapped instead, his hand tight over Duncan's as the pounding increased, his breathing increased, the deep, plunging strokes into his body increased and just laid him open to what felt like liquid fire, liquid light. 

"Every one," Duncan murmured, pressing, pressing his heart, moving over him so slow and so relentless, "I feel every single one, Methos. I feel it _everywhere_." 

"Don't—" 

"Don't tell me 'don't', Methos. You know... you know what you want. Tell me." Demon. Angel. Blessing and killing him, fucking him full of something that might as well have been poison for the way he drew away from it, dreading; and Methos found that he could struggle but _god_ it hurt— 

"Fuck me!" It tore out of him. 

"That's not it, Methos. That's. Not. It. Tell me—you want it, you know you want it..." Dark, alluring voice, so perfectly in accord with the actions that were undoing him one slow agonizing knot at a time—the stiff cock that breached him eased against that place inside that lit him from within, but not roughly, not enough to satisfy or even to tease, no—only pleasure, patient and irresistible, hellishly unavoidable. Over and over and over until he couldn't stop the tears that spilled, praying only that they wouldn't be seen. 

"No... I won't—" 

"You will." Serene and relentless, taking everything from him with despicable tranquillity. "You want..." 

"I want—" Methos' traitorous mouth began, and that was much too much and he had to squeeze his eyes closed against the horrendousness of it. "Please, no—" 

Over him, inside him Duncan shuddered, lunged faster, harder, again and again— and Methos felt a flash of relief until he realized that this was _worse_ ; Duncan's abandonment to the pleasure of fucking him like this was _worse_ than sedate insistence because he couldn't get _away_ from it now, couldn't find the resistance or distance he needed to have... " _Good_ inside you," a soft gasp iced the skin of his neck, interrupting the flow of words, tearing into him. "So fucking good with you—so _beautiful_ —oh yes... oh yes... take you and never- - stop—tell you... oh Methos....." 

"Tell me—" he stopped on a sob, felt control slipping away from him like life; out of his hands, out of his mind... he bucked, swarmed up grasping with legs and one arm to pull close while his other hand pressed Duncan's touch there, _there_ into his chest—oh god he was going to do it, oh _fuck_ yes he was— need, unspeakable hunger, pain, but... 

"Tell me you love me!" The cry bled in his throat. 

"Ah—" Duncan took his mouth, tongue-tip touches with his heartbeat, with the fierce rhythm of hips that jolted him, skewered him, left him gazing through prisms— 

And then away, staring down at him, unbelievably greedy. "I love you, Methos. I do. Come hard." 

His own scream deafened him, staccato with the heavy beat of thrusts that punched through and punctured _everything_ , fucking his heart into ribbons as he came and came apart, came shrieking unthinkable words and sucked Duncan with him into the vacuum of black that swallowed it all—an open crypt, opened, erupted darkness of void where evaporated nightmares shriveled in the blazing light of... something... such _light_... 

..... _love you_... 

He heard it, floating away; believed it, and found too late that he had no place left to hide, after all. 

..... _Methos_... 

Such light... 

* * *

Coming Back To Life 

Part IV: The Bending Up Of Spirits 

_I took a heavenly ride through our silence,  
I knew the moment had arrived,   
For killing the past, and coming back to life_

(Cruelty is inevitable...) 

Yes. Obviously so. 

Those words stuck with Duncan in the days that followed, winnowed their way repeatedly into his consciousness—maddening, really; it meant nothing, they meant nothing—it was impossible to assess the legitimacy of anything that had been said or done—real? Unreal? Lies or truth? 

No matter. He was okay. 

Duncan enjoyed what he could, and tried to let the rest of it be irrelevant. He found himself surprised at odd moments that he really _was_ okay—frustrated, yes; and disappointed and occasionally furious—but alive, possessed of his life in a way he thought he might never be again. Whatever it was that had been so wrong with him for so long, he at least had the satisfaction of knowing that it was over. Small things had changed, small things everywhere but very numerous; he could taste food again, and see colors and textures with an appraising eye, and appreciate the feel of wind and rain on his skin and the sight of the stars at night, so constant— 

And he needed these comforts, needed the reminders of constancy and the newfound delight in small things, because turnabout is fair play, and cruelty is inevitable, and this time it had been _his_ turn to wake up alone. 

No note, of course. What, after all, remained to be said? Just alone. He supposed, in retrospect, that he should have expected it, but... well, he hadn't. Pure surprise. 

An absolute ass-kicking shock, actually, if he was honest about it. 

And why not? He had the luxury of honesty, now, and a whole lot of time to think about it in. He had his sadness and his solitude and his blessing of vitality, all living together in a mish-mash jumble of grief and contentment, coexisting from high point to low point without ever really caring where it took him because somehow it was all worthwhile... 

He would sort it out. He would pick up the threads of his life again, dive back into activity. He would stand and be true and take care of those precious to him—Amanda... there was almost no sting there at all now, and he felt free to seek his peace with her and let it be over, let them be what they could be to each other. He would do this and other things, he would take back the life that had been offered to him— 

He would do this soon. Very soon. But first he would take a little rest. Heaven knows he deserved one. 

And so he got himself a little house on the far outskirts of Paris, and left the barge cluttered with stuff intended for a wedding that would never happen (what the hell _had_ he been thinking, anyway?). He made sure to apprise Joe of the amazing fact of his okayness (not an easy sell, but eventually he got his point across without coming right out and admitting that apparently the key to redemption was humping Methos), and then he settled himself in, which proved to be easier than he'd expected it to be. 

In the evenings he sat on his diminutive porch and looked out on the world; either the sun sinking into distant trees or grey, slanting sheets of rain fading imperceptibly to black. He let his thoughts and feelings run unfettered, since that was, after all, kind of the point; and sometimes he cried and sometimes he laughed, and sometimes when a connection clicked in and he saw something naked and clear for the first time he would speak it out loud, foster his own illumination by cementing it in words, a gift given lightly in an old habit—spoken not for himself, but for absent friends. 

He kept the space open, he did that, too. Futile gesture or not, it was right, it was the thing to do, the thing he had to do for now. Two chairs on his tiny porch. He sat in one. The other—well, he didn't really think of it as _empty_ , so much as held open, unoccupied. For now. 

A life at rest, a conversation continued through the process of slow mending; a life sufficient but with a place held open, a welcome, a readiness... Just in case. 

It was enough. 

* * *

Epilogue: Destiny 

_No more turning away, from the weak and the weary  
No more turning away from the coldness inside,   
Just a world that we all must share   
It's not enough just to stand and stare   
Is it only a dream that there'll be no more turning away?   
—Pink Floyd, 'On The Turning Away'_

He'd pictured it so many times, rendered imagined shape and form real through so many hours and days and months of dialogue, that his first thought was that he must be lonelier than he'd thought, and consequently he was hallucinating. 

But no. Hallucinations don't buzz with Presence (unless he was suffering from a very complex and insidious variety), and he doubted that, even at its most creative, his mind would have imagined a _baseball cap_. Of all things. 

So—there was Methos, in the chair on the porch, for all the world as if he'd been conjured there, right to the perfect spot where Duncan had pictured him, an obedient djinn. 

Yeah. Right. 

Duncan shifted his grip on the bags he held, and wiggled one hand free to brush the hair out of his eyes, hair which was now long enough to annoy him but too short to tie. He'd expected something else from this moment, some great revelation or awareness of need, but all he felt was a vague warmth deep in his stomach. Not in shock then, and not broken, and really after all this time that was a pretty big relief... 

"Welcome," he said quietly, just so that wouldn't be in doubt. 

As if Duncan's voice had broken a spell of immobilization Methos stood, came forward steadily but slowly and took the bags out of his arms. Duncan watched silently as the bags were set carefully down, and then Methos was in his arms and rocking him slightly, breathing him in—and that was funny because he was doing the same thing—they were _sniffing_ each other furtively, like shy dogs, and it would have made him laugh except he didn't seem to have the breath for it, not when he could be breathing Methos. 

"Will you stay?" Damn. He'd meant to work up to that gradually. Apparently, he wasn't quite as nonchalant as he thought he was. 

Methos froze against him for a moment, and Duncan was ready to let him go but then that rigid and precious body relaxed against him, with a sigh that tickled through his hair. "I don't know." 

"Oh." 

Methos pulled away slowly. The embrace had knocked the ridiculous cap askew and Duncan had to smile—he looked so bloody _young_ like that— 

The cap came off. "I meant what I said, Mac. About cruelty." 

Yes, absolutely— _there_ was the Methos he knew; not such an enigma anymore but no less frightening for being better understood—it was very true, it really did seem inevitable that life between them was going to be fraught with pain. Probably terrible pain. Five thousand years worth of fucking pain. 

"I know." He countered with his own truth, gingerly—the truth that had driven Methos away, last time. "Love is also inevitable, Methos." 

Methos nodded, grim and determined as if this had been some kind of test he'd been preparing for. 

Duncan perceived the steps of the dance even though all was still—a careful negotiation, one where all elements would have to be considered lest the deal be rendered null and void... "Is there anything else, Methos? Tell me..." 

Methos studied him carefully, a somber and critical assessment at odds with the fact that he reached out to brush Duncan's fallen hair back, a practical touch that became a lingering caress, sweet until Methos pulled his hand away quickly. "Nothing is forever. I need you to know that. I need to know that you understand that." 

Duncan rocked a little, surprised. That particular observation seemed both simpler and more complex than what he'd been expecting, and yes, he had to admit, Methos had something there—accepting that idea as truth, as fact, was extremely uncomfortable. On the up-side, the part of his mind that was already three steps ahead was pretty excited—he sensed that he'd just found a big root cause of a lot of that pain he had to look forward to, and in his new life that which could be articulated could be conquered. 

"I understand that you believe that, Methos. I'm willing to consider it, but honestly I'm probably going to fight you on that one." 

Methos smiled, an incredibly sad smile. Duncan's heart lurched—Methos was going to walk away now, he could feel it—such resignation and sorrow and they'd only had a few _minutes_ — 

But then Methos' hand closed warm on his, and that melancholy, suddenly tired- looking face came close to lean on his shoulder, and Duncan brought his free hand up in slow, silent motion to stroke tentatively (gently!) against soft, soft hair. 

"That'll do, MacLeod. That'll have to do." 

* * *

Author: Mairead Triste   
Title: Coming Back to Life (Part 3 of Shades of Grey)   
Rating: NC-17   
Characters: DM, M   
Classification: Slash   
Comments: Final part of the Shades of Grey series. Graphic homosexual adult content.   
Summary: Things get dense, things shift around, stuff becomes apparent.   
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are not mine, and, considering the way that I treat them, that's probably a good thing. Lyrics are also not mine, but nobody pays me for this so hopefully nobody cares. This material may not be copied or distributed without permission. Please do not link, publish or post this material without permission.   
Author's Note: This story is the third and VERY final chapter in the 'Shades of Grey' series, which was never supposed to be a series at all but I just couldn't seem to shut up. The first two stories are 'Shades of Grey' and 'Eclipse', and if you haven't read them you're going to be terribly lost here. I have a weird sort of apology to offer with this story—if you're looking for gory squickiness and ultraviolence, you're not gonna find it here. I kept looking for the bloody bits, but I couldn't find much (my guess—Ratboy stole 'em). Oh well—sorry 'bout that, folks.   
Acknowledgements: Sincere and enormous thanks go out to Carmel and Bone and Killa and Mouselette, whose generosity and enthusiasm made all this possible. Massive thanks also to you blessed steady feedbackers—way to feed the machine, guys! Additional prayerful thanks go out to Pink Floyd, for being the soundtrack of my life.   
This story is dedicated to Madame Mouselette, for her unswerving faith, for giving me W.W., and for knowing what I mean when I say ham!   
Feedback and other wails of outrage will be gloated over at[email removed]   
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